


Dark Corners

by Mollyamory (Molly)



Series: Soft Sciences [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Bruce Banner, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce/Tony is the end game, Build-a-family, Comic Book Science, Comic Book Violence, Found Family, Like really really slow, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science Bros to Science Boyfriends, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers also kind of needs a hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, background Tony Stark/Pepper Potts - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Mollyamory
Summary: "You're a flight risk, Bruce." Tony folds his arms tightly across his chest, turning his arc reactor into a cool, building ache inside him. "You've got a history of running and a talent for hiding, and I'm not sure I'd ever find you again if you decided you didn't want to be found. So I'm asking -- scale of one to ten, how spooked are you by Nick Fury showing up unannounced in my living room?"
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Tony Stark
Series: Soft Sciences [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1342735
Comments: 32
Kudos: 147





	Dark Corners

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time coming, and would never have made it out of the pipeline without extensive hand-holding, cheerleading, strategizing and beta-reading by Speranza, Dorinda, hafital and heyjupiter. Many other dear friends have contributed by enduring my endless whinging about how writing is hard (my housemates in particular have put up with a metric ton of that, plus countless hours of MCU rewatching "for research!") 
> 
> Many, many thanks to all of you wonderful people. Any typos/errors/mistakes/poor life choices I've made herein are mine alone.

Tony wakes up unable to breathe, his heartbeat roaring in his ears like the wind through a closing portal, like the end of the fucking world. The sky above him is open and the yawning black emptiness beyond is closing on him like an angry fist. The first coherent thought he can piece together is _out, get out!_ because terror is a live thing in his brain, writhing, cold and separate and invasive, _not him_.

The need to escape it, though. That is him entirely.

He doesn't escape. What he does is:

Fall off the sofa onto the cold, hard floor of the hangar. Shove himself back against the couch and scan the room for familiar things or things he might need to kill. Hope like hell he can differentiate between the two. Hope like hell the two things _are_ different -- not always a guaranteed outcome in his experience. 

His heart beats so hard and fast he knows there's something wrong with it, the human body can't survive this. He has to _get out_. Out of this city, out of this shattered building with its blank, pitiless windows glaring down on him. There's something (tachysomething? tachycardia? is that a real thing?) _wrong_ here, something wrong inside him here -- a heart attack or an aneurysm or maybe a pulmonary embolism. That can happen, right? That could explain how hard it is just to breathe--

While he's trying to diagnose himself (a tumor, maybe? a hard living knot of alien cells, _other_ , burrowing into the deepest part of his brain?) and simultaneously maybe dying, Dum-E rolls over making loud interrogatory beeps and extending his long arm, the clamp at the end spinning ominously.

"Nope. No, no way," Tony gasps, "thank you, back off, I'm fine, please go away."

His voice fades out at the end from lack of oxygen, not exactly his most convincing moment, and Dum-E (who is not as dumb as his designation might imply, Tony Stark didn't raise any stupid children) accordingly does not buy it. The bot beeps again, and edges closer, the beeps getting higher in pitch. Tony bats him away and struggles to get up off the floor, but his arms won't support him enough to get his legs underneath him, and his legs are sending signals that indicate they'd be useless anyway. He settles for scuttling away, just a bit, just enough that Dum-E somehow gets the message and backs off with a sad little whir.

When the door to the hangar slides open, Tony has occasion to be very, very glad he doesn't have immediate access to his suit. Bruce is a calm person, and he's a doctor, sort of, so he's a welcome addition to the neurochemical rebellion Tony's brain is currently staging. The Hulk is not so calm, and not really useful in a medical emergency. And the Hulk is what Tony would get if he accidentally hit Bruce with a repulsor blast in a blind panic, so it's just as well Tony's not wearing the suit, no matter how much he'd really like to be a foot taller and armored at the moment.

"Hey, Tony." Bruce walks past him without asking any of the valid questions Tony expects, like _are you okay?_ or _what are you doing down there?_ or _do you need medical attention?_ He goes to the minifridge by the supply closet and grabs two bottles of water, then comes over and lowers himself to the floor next to Tony. He opens one of the bottles and offers it to Tony without even looking.

After a long pause to make sure his hand won't shake, Tony reaches up and takes it from him.

His hand _does_ shake. Bruce doesn't seem to notice. He just cracks open his own water bottle and tips his head back for a long drink, his throat working slowly as he swallows. Tony watches him dispatch half the bottle that way before remembering he has a bottle of his own.

The water is cold and crisp and good. Somehow, Tony manages not to choke on it. Somehow, he is also still breathing, and somehow his heart has not actually exploded. His brain spasm has passed and left him mostly unscathed.

Just a _touch_ of aneurysm, then.

It occurs to him that he can feel his legs again, that he can think in relatively straight lines. These vast improvements coincide with Bruce's arrival so perfectly that Tony seriously considers the possibility that the water is drugged. He takes another huge gulp, just in case.

"You know, if you keep working through the night like this, Pepper's going to ditch you and run off with me instead." Bruce is still looking idly around the hangar, but there's a curve to his mouth that's definitely pointed in Tony's direction.

"She could do worse," Tony says, because Bruce is a smart guy with great hair, and does not paint an unpleasant picture in a tight t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms.

"Well, yeah," Bruce says, finally turning to Tony with a grin, "she already has."

Tony's laugh comes out like the slow death of a rusty chainsaw. It eases the panicked clench of his heart in his chest; it scours out the fear, leaving nothing but Tony behind. He breathes deep, his first full breath since waking up, and lets his head drop, just for a moment, onto Bruce's shoulder.

"You sound better."

"Yeah," Tony murmurs, relaxing just for a second into the warmth of Bruce's company, the solidity of the shoulder pressing against his cheek. "You have a very soothing presence, Doctor. That whole ragemonster thing? Apparently, not your only superpower."

"True," Bruce says smugly. "Limited utility, though; I seem to have the opposite effect on everybody else."

"Don't worry. I'm locking this one down. Exclusive rights to the secret force of chill that is Bruce Banner."

Bruce laughs, almost like he thinks Tony's joking. Tony laughs, too, just in case he was _supposed_ to be joking, but in this Tony is absolutely serious. Somewhere between falling out of the sky and falling off this very sofa, keeping Bruce at his side has become a necessity. In priority it falls slightly below activities required to sustain Tony's physical existence, like sleeping and breathing, and slightly above the preservation of Tony's mental stability. Since Bruce's presence, in and of itself, is more than a little preservative of Tony's mental stability, the rank seems fairly earned. 

The thought of going back to sleep -- either here on the couch, or upstairs with Pepper -- brings back a sense memory of the clawing, desperate urge to flee. But Bruce is here, Bruce has agreed to stay _here_ , at Tony's frequent and vehement insistence. 

With Tony's explicit assurance that he, too, will be staying here -- at least for the foreseeable future. 

So… maybe he won't be getting out of the city. But he needs to be doing _something_.

Tony takes one more long breath and closes his eyes. Then he gets his feet under him, pushes up, and all at once he's standing, all under his own power. When he's sure he's not going to fall over or pass out, he sticks out a hand; Bruce grabs it, and Tony hauls him up, too. 

He itches to tinker with the jet, or maybe with his suits. But the jet is as ready for primetime as two genius superheroes can make it, and most of what he needs for suit construction is in Malibu. There are other projects, though -- there's a vague outline of a plan in his mind, not just a suit but a team of suits, a -- he doesn't even know what to call it, a troop? A flock? They fly, right, so maybe flock, except that sounds weird, it's not like they have feathers. Flying armor, but not really armor if he's not in them -- flying robots? He spares a glance for Dum-E and thinks maybe he's got more thinking to do on the terminology; a flock of Dum-Es wouldn't really convey the bad-ass image he's going for--

"I'm just going to tinker with some things. There's a--" he waves a hand at his workstation. "There's a thing I wanted to look into."

"Okay." Bruce grabs an extra chair and rolls it up to Tony's desk. "What is it?"

Tony tilts his head, eyebrows drawing together. "You… want to stick around?"

"I couldn't sleep, either," Bruce points out. "Show me what you've got on the project board." He sits down and taps at the keyboard, and the room lights up.

~

Five minutes out of a 36-hour work binge; 36 hours and ten minutes out of nightmare-fueled panic attack. Four p.m., and Tony's burning off the last of a caffeine high before the inevitable crash. He's only nominally still awake -- warp engines offline. Impulse power only.

"I hear you've got a new roommate, Stark. How's that working out for you?"

Tony's heart rate kicks up at the sudden intrusion, but settles an instant later when his least favorite security breach strides into the room.

"Nick. Lovely to see you. How'd you get past Jarvis this time?" Tony leans back against his desk and endeavors to look as bored as humanly possible.

"You patch one hole, we make another." Fury's smile is as charming as a shark's, and just about half as sincere. "Think of it as my contribution to keeping you on your toes."

"That is just so thoughtful of you. Really. You're such a giver."

"So...Banner?"

"Oh, he's great. Picks up after himself, doesn't play loud music after ten. Always lets me pick the movie. We're catching him up on all the stuff he missed while he was on the run from you and all your deep state black ops buddies. Remind me...why do you care, again?"

"Did I say I cared?" Fury spreads his hands wide in a show of innocence. "Why would I care who you decide to shack up with?"

"Well, you've never just dropped by for a friendly visit before, so I can only assume you're here to chastise me for my terrible life choices. As usual." Tony goes to the bar and pointedly pulls a single glass down off the shelf.

Fury's battle-scarred face settles into an unimpressed glare. "Because that's been so effective in the past."

"You should know before you get started -- Banner is non-negotiable. He's my friend, and he's an Avenger. He stays here."

"Stand down, son. I'm not here to critique your roommate situation. Hell, having him here just gets me two Avengers in Manhattan for the price of one, if things should happen to go pear-shaped again. I'm all for it."

"As long as we understand each other." Tony pours a finger of Scotch into his glass, and waves it toward the door. "Good talk. Elevator's that way. Feel free to show yourself out."

"Untwist your panties, Stark." Fury drops onto the low sofa next to the bar. "Pour me some of that expensive booze and take a load off. I actually dropped by to talk about Rogers."

Tony rolls his eyes, but he hands the glass to Fury and pulls up a chair. "You're batting a thousand. That's my _second_ least favorite topic of conversation."

"Have you heard from him lately?"

"I actively avoid conversing with the good Captain about anything unrelated to imminent global disaster. Is this going to be a team thing? If it's a team thing -- Jarvis, could you get Doctor Banner up here?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Please let him know our friend Nick is here and wants to talk to us about Cap."

"Anyone else you want to invite to our secret meeting?" Fury drawls. "Girlfriend, maybe?"

"Great idea," Tony says, "Jarvis--"

" _Stark._ "

Tony grins. "She's at work, anyway. So what's the deal with Rogers? Pet super-soldier slip the leash?"

Fury leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "There is no leash. Not on any of you. Thought you might have noticed that by now. But we _have_ tried to keep tabs on his location since --"

"Since we saved the world?" Bruce says as he steps off the elevator. His stride is easy and relaxed, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans. He's dressed comfortably for the lab -- sneakers, dark blue button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows -- and has never looked more like he belongs right here. But his face is unnaturally composed, expressionless, and his eyes cut over to Tony before he steps forward and holds out his hand.

"Doctor Banner," Fury says, rising. He shakes the hand Bruce offers. "In the wind, are you?"

"I can get there from here. If I need to." Bruce's mouth sharpens into a smile so aggressively unfriendly, he might have learned it from Howard Stark himself. "Do I need to?"

"Not on my account." Fury sweeps his gaze across both of them, shaking his head. "You boys are a couple of exceptionally paranoid motherfuckers; anybody ever tell you that? For the last time -- I'm not here to bring anybody in."

"Except Steve." Bruce doesn't look very impressed by that idea, either. "Remind me, why would we want to help you with that? Seems like he wouldn't be lost if he didn't mean to be."

"Well, that's the hope." Fury sits down again, crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning back, arms spread wide over the back of the sofa. Tony thinks for a second he might be trying to make himself look open or vulnerable, but surely not even Fury could underestimate the two of them _that_ badly. "And if that's the case, we don't have a problem."

"But you think we do have a problem," Tony says flatly.

"Aside from the fact that the last time that man got himself lost, it took us seventy years to find him?"

"Aside from that," Bruce says evenly. "Yes."

"How about this: Until recently, the world had exactly zero examples of a successful implementation of the super-soldier serum. Now we have exactly one. No offense, Doctor Banner, but Steve Rogers alive and well in the twenty-first century moves you down a bit on everybody's priority lists -- the good guys _and_ the bad guys. Why go after a Hulk when you could get a Captain America instead?"

Tony raises his hand instantly. "I can think of several extremely good reasons."

"I can't," Bruce says, his voice dry as the Sahara. "So you think Thaddeus Ross and his pals might be looking to build their own super-soldier. One slightly less… mindlessly homicidal than the Hulk."

"Hey," Tony snaps. "Be nice. I happen to _adore_ that big green rageball."

"Your weird taste in friends is off-topic, Tony--"

"And," Fury says loudly, overriding both of them, "One slightly more ideologically flexible than a guy who wears an American flag as a uniform." He meets Bruce's eyes with utter certainty. "But whoever it is, or might be, it isn't Ross, Doctor Banner. He is fully contained. You've got my word on this. That may not mean much to you, but rest assured that it means quite a lot to me."

"Then who?" Tony asks. "Who's got you so worried you want to put Captain fucking America in protective custody?"

"We're looking into that. For now, all we have are suggestions. Rumors, in the kinds of places accessible only to very, very bad people."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And very, very good SHIELD agents?"

"That is an excellent point," Tony says, snapping his fingers and turning to give Bruce a wide smile. "Gosh, it's been an _age_ since we caught up with Barton and Romanoff, hasn't it? I wonder what those crazy kids have been up to. We should invite them over for dinner or something. How's the weekend look for you, Doctor Banner?"

"Barring any unexpected, unpaid super-soldier babysitting gigs, I'm wide open."

Fury rolls his eye at them and abandons his non-threatening posture on the sofa. He stands up, his coat swirling around his legs. "I trust you'll inform me if you come into any information on Captain Rogers' whereabouts," he says, and it comes out as more of an order than a request.

"I trust you'll be monitoring all our communications in case we don't," Tony returns. "It's been a great chat, Nick. Glad you stopped by."

When the elevator doors have closed and the whir of machinery attests to Fury's descent, Tony drops onto the sofa as if his strings have been cut. "Swear to God, that guy freaks me out way more than Hulk ever could. Is it just me, or does Fury get creepier every time we see him?"

When no answer is forthcoming, Tony looks up and finds Bruce frozen in place. Standing exactly where he'd been before Fury left, with exactly the same blank, bland expression. He looks relaxed and calm, just as he had before, but...

"Hey," Tony says quietly. "Bruce?"

"I'm okay." His eyes cut over to Tony, losing some of their distance. "Just thinking. I need a minute."

"You can have it." Tony takes a minute himself -- partly to process Fury's visit, and partly to keep an eye on Bruce's response to it. He doesn't seem angry, but then, he rarely does. When Tony's sure that more than a minute has passed -- not that he's counting, of course -- he says, "This isn't the kind of thinking that ends with you vanishing into the night, is it?"

Bruce blinks, and the far-away look in his eyes zooms back into laser focus. "What?"

"You're a flight risk, Bruce." Tony folds his arms tightly across his chest, turning his arc reactor into a cool, building ache inside him. "You've got a history of running and a talent for hiding, and I'm not sure I'd ever find you again if you decided you didn't want to be found. So I'm asking -- scale of one to ten, how spooked are you by Nick Fury showing up unannounced in my living room?"

"About an eleven," Bruce says drily. "But I'm not going anywhere, Tony. I've seen the best Hulk containment solution Fury can come up with, and I'm not impressed. Plus, this Tower's a fortress." He smiles, the blank look of concentration softening into something new. "I feel pretty safe here. It's been… really good, not to have to keep looking over my shoulder."

"Ah." Tony hugs himself even tighter, and now the edges of the reactor dig into the flesh of his arms, cold and sharp. "Good, that's good. Safe is good. We're definitely safe here." He resolutely doesn't dwell on the distance between this room and the roof, this room and the ground, the ground and the hole that had almost swallowed him. He lets go of his arms and shakes his hands out, wiping his palms across his thighs. "Totally, totally safe."

"Honestly, I'm way more spooked on Steve's behalf than my own."

"Yeah," Tony says absently. Then, "Wait, what? You don't think there's a real danger to our Star-spangled Man with a Plan, do you?"

"Don't you?" 

"Um, no?"

Bruce tilts his head. "Why not?"

"Fury," Tony says, shrugging. "I don't trust him. I kind of like him, which makes it all a bit awkward -- the guy has style, and so far he's come through when it counts. But when he comes around asking for one thing, you can be damn sure he's looking for five other things you don't know about, and probably wouldn't want to give him."

"That seems like even more of a reason to be worried about Steve."

Tony sighs, and looks away. "You're not wrong. But Fury's not worried. If he were, he'd be coordinating a manhunt, not here drinking my Scotch and yanking my chain."

"What's your issue with Steve, anyway?"

"Well, I'm not particularly thrilled with how much he can't stand me..."

Bruce's eyes widen. "I don't think that's actually true."

"No, I mean it. Really not thrilled in the slightest."

"Tony..."

"Look, I don't know him well enough to have an issue with him. What's the guy's deal? What do we know about him? Really hates Nazis? Super into the flag? He's a mystery inside an enigma, wrapped in star-spangled spandex."

"And you're an open book?"

"Please. You can get twice that much relevant information from my Tinder profile alone."

Bruce blinks once, and his mouth curls into a slow grin. "Clearly I've been getting to know you in all the wrong places."

Tony had opened his mouth to say something -- to explain (in graphic detail) what Tinder was, probably. But now his mouth just stays open, jaw practically unhinged, while Bruce's grin gets even wider.

"What?" Bruce asks with lying innocent eyes.

Tony levels a finger at him and says, "You're a menace. Or a marvel. Possibly both. A marvelous menace who absolutely does not know what Tinder is. I refuse to believe it."

"They do have the internet in India, you know. And hook-ups."

"Can we go back to talking about Steve? Because I actually prefer that to you destroying my faith in SHIELD's admittedly sketchy history of your ex-pat adventures."

"Right." Bruce does that thing again, that looking-over-his-glasses thing, that thing that means he's humoring Tony while simultaneously making Tony feel like he's won a prize somehow. It's probably his favorite Bruce thing, and it's... weirdly distracting.

"Steve?" Bruce prompts.

"What? Yeah. Yes. Sorry." Tony waves a hand, giving Bruce the floor. "Steve, imperiled. Go."

"If we accept Fury's premise, someone's looking to make new super-soldiers -- because that always works out so well -- and Steve's their ideal Patient Zero."

"Imagine actually wanting _more Steve Rogers._ Clearly they've never met the guy."

"Well, that's the problem, isn't it?" Bruce is all business now. "You never actually get more Steve Rogers, do you? You get... something else. Something worse."

"Something _different_ ," Tony corrects firmly.

Bruce just rolls his eyes. "Regardless, we can't let it get that far. It's no good for anybody, especially not Steve. We need to find him."

"That's the easy part." Tony calls up a map of the eastern seaboard and expands it into the air between them. "Jarvis, pinpoint Steve Rogers, please."

"Certainly, sir." A blue dot begins flashing near the coast of Massachusetts. The image zooms automatically, narrowing in focus to an area just to the north of Gloucester. A flag appears next to the dot -- _Nan's Cafe_ , with an address and phone number underneath.

"Satellite?"

The map is replaced with an image of a parking lot, faded white lines slanting away from a narrow building. One of those parking spaces -- the one furthest from the door -- is taken by a familiar dusty motorcycle.

"Bingo," Tony says, tapping the address flag to send it to his phone. "Unless somebody stole Captain America's ride, he's probably halfway through an apple pie right about now." He looks up at Bruce and grins. "Road trip?"

But Bruce already has his phone to his ear, watching Tony with the ghost of a smile as he says, "Hi, I'm looking for one of your customers, kind of a... family emergency... Grant Rogers. Tall, blonde, he'll probably be alone...right. Uh huh. Could you just check? ...thank you."

While he waits, Bruce hits his mute button and gives Tony an amused look. "Do I need to sweep my belongings for trackers?"

Tony grins. "What, all three of them?"

"We're having a long talk about boundaries at some point in the very near -- ah, yeah, hi, Steve, it's Bruce. Bruce Banner...?"

With a few taps on his tabletop display, Tony steals Bruce's signal and puts it on speaker.

"...you are, Bruce, I'm hardly likely to forget--"

"Hey, Steve, this is Tony. Tony Stark? You know, from the Avengers?" he says. Bruce glares and blushes at Tony simultaneously as Steve's voice breaks into laughter.

"Now that the reintroductions are out of the way, what can I do for you boys?"

"Actually," Bruce says, "we're hoping we can do something for you..."

~

Steve Rogers is not in trouble.

He's so not in trouble, in fact, that he's a little pissed off at the very idea. It may be a new America, but it's still _America_ , he was a grown man before Tony was a twinkle in Howard's eye, and he absolutely does not want or need any help. Not said aloud but definitely implied is Steve's core argument: especially from Tony Stark, thank you _very_ much.

It's all said in an insufferably polite tone that Tony reads as the old-fashioned _fuck you_ it is absolutely meant to be. If Tony had been alone, that would have been the end of that conversation and, quite possibly, any future ones.

But it turns out there's a difference between blowing off Tony Stark's offer of assistance and blowing off the same offer from Bruce Banner. The difference being, when it's Bruce offering, Rogers _doesn't._ He agrees to meet them for lunch the next day in Gloucester -- as long as it's understood that they're over-reacting and their presence is completely unnecessary. Over a shared eyeroll, Bruce and Tony agree to pretend to believe that.

Getting out of town sounds great to Tony. Living directly under the exact same piece of sky that had opened up and swallowed him whole presents some unique challenges to his sanity. He's keeping a lid on it so far because he has to, and because he doesn't dare introduce even the thought of going anywhere else to Bruce. This is where Bruce feels safe, and Tony would put up with a lot more than a few bad nights here and there to keep it that way.

But this plan... this isn't _going_ anywhere. Not exactly. It's a jaunt, a day trip. Like a run to the coffee shop on the corner, only the corner's a few states away up the coast. It'll be good for them. Good for Bruce, good for Tony, good for Rogers. All Tony needs is a couple hours' sleep first. 

He crashes next to Pepper, breathes deep, closes his eyes -- and jerks awake what seems like seconds later. He rolls out of the bed they share, hands shaking, heart pounding, eyes staring wildly into the dark corners of the room. His breathing rasps across the quiet dark like sandpaper, and Pepper curls into her side of the bed with a soft, grumpy sound.

So _that's_ not happening.

Tony stumbles into the kitchen, still shaking, half-blind with exhaustion. Bruce, cross-legged and bare-chested, sits on the center island, dressed in nothing but a pair of long, loose-fitting charcoal yoga pants.

"This isn't...what it looks like?" Bruce is wide-eyed, his hair a wild tangle, and the spoon dangling from the corner of his mouth sways alarmingly as he speaks. Arrayed around him on the counter are several wide, glowing candles and five different Ben & Jerry's ice cream containers, each with its own spoon sticking out of the top. In the warm, flickering light, Tony can see most of them are more than half-empty.

It _looks like_ the best party Tony's ever not been invited to, and it works on his system like the best kind of medicine. Everything that's been revving too fast starts to ease down. He'll take this over popping a Xanax, any day. Though the Xanax might be a little less addictive.

"Jarvis, I'm going to need a picture of this," Tony says absently. "Tag it for media relations but keep it in your back pocket."

"Hey!"

"Just an insurance policy, you understand. Reserving my spot on the guest list for any future clandestine ice cream orgies."

Bruce's eyes narrow in apparent calculation. Wordlessly, he chooses one of the ice cream cartons and slides it across the counter toward Tony.

"Cherry Garcia." Tony pulls the spoon out, examines it, and carefully licks it clean. "Solid opening on negotiations. Indulge my curiosity: do you actually have a giant bag of weed around here somewhere?"

"I wish," Bruce says, his voice oddly faint. Tony raises his eyebrows, and Bruce yanks his gaze downward, stabbing his spoon into his carton. "I was meditating. I got hungry. What are you -- I mean, um. What brings you down here, anyway?"

Tony's ice cream is suddenly absolutely fascinating. "Pepper is a deeply antisocial sleeper. Kicks, snores, steals the blankets...the whole nine. I retreated under friendly fire."

Bruce watches Tony and doesn't say anything. The silence stretches out until it starts to get weird, and Bruce _still_ doesn't say anything, so Tony says, "What about you?"

"Nightmares. My subconscious..." Bruce waves at his head and lets out a low laugh. "Some nights it's like a John Carpenter festival in there. If I get a chance to bug out early, I take it."

"Okay." Tony scratches at the back of his neck and looks away. "So that sounded like the start of an open and honest dialogue between friends, and I was on kind of a different page."

Bruce grins crookedly. "We only do that for my issues, huh?"

"What," Tony says, "you don't think that's fair?"

"What I think is... you trying to cover up whatever's going on with you is a very good way to keep me from knowing what's going on with you. So if that's the goal, you're doing great. It's not an effective way to keep me from knowing that you're hiding something, though. I mean, maybe if you'd really put your back into it? But that was kind of half-assed."

"Hey, I wouldn't call it hiding, exactly. More like... spinning a polite social fiction. Most people tend to appreciate the opportunity to _avoid_ getting to know me better, so I generally assume there's a kind of unspoken mutual consent."

"Yeah?" Bruce's eyes flick up from his ice cream and smiles. "Well. I guess I'm not really like most people."

The candlelight encloses Bruce in a glowing bubble of warmth, leaving the rest of the kitchen, the rest of the world, shadowed and distant. Tony's caught up in it, settled by it. He levers himself up onto the counter and swings his legs over, matching Bruce's position and snagging a space in that bubble for himself. He pulls a random carton of ice cream toward him and says, "No, Doctor Banner, that you are not."

"That said..." Bruce passes Tony a clean spoon and shrugs. "I don't tell you everything; you don't have to tell me everything. Or anything. We've all got dark corners." He laughs, dropping his eyes; it's not a happy sound. "Some of us more than others. You don't actually owe me an all-access pass to the Tony Stark Experience."

"I just don't know how to start...you know." Tony waves a hand to encompass the space between them. "Sharing, or whatever. I don't get a lot of practice. You'd be amazed at how many people _don't_ want to hear about the personal traumas of the ultra-rich superhero set. And can you blame them? I've got so much going for me, I make myself sick sometimes. I can't really justify offloading my issues onto innocent bystanders."

Bruce looks at Tony, the straight line of his mouth softening. "What about Pepper?"

"Pepper." Tony twirls his spoon between his fingers, sending reflections flaring out across the room. "She's an amazing person. I mean, you know. You've met her. I absolutely don't deserve her. That's the foundational truth of our relationship."

"She doesn't seem to see it that way."

"She's an optimist. And in her defense, there is some evidence to suggest I may improve slightly on deeper acquaintance. Some kind of tolerance may develop. I'm just concerned about where the natural limits of that phenomenon may lie."

"So, you're, what -- you're worried she'll say 'ooooh, Tony had a bad dream, I'm moving on to greener pastures,' that kind of thing?"

Tony looks away, swallowing back an eddy of renewed panic. "I'm worried she's already had enough of my bullshit to last a lifetime."

"From where I'm sitting it kind of seems like she signed up for your bullshit. Shouldn't she get to decide when she's had enough?"

"That...makes a certain amount of sense." Tony jabs his spoon deep into the carton and leaves it there, planted like a flag. "But still, no. I prefer Pepper to sleep through the night and wake well-rested and blissfully certain that I'm far less fucked up than I, you know. Actually am." He glances up at Bruce with a faint, self-mocking smile. "Keeps the love alive."

"Sounds healthy," Bruce says drily. "But what do I know? My most significant long-term relationship to date is with the big green gamma beast that lives in my lizard-brain."

"And the last time you sat him down for a heart to heart about your deepest fears and personal failings was...?"

"In my defense, he probably knows far more about my psyche's emotional underpinnings than I do. But--" Bruce salutes Tony with his spoon before taking another bite, "--touché."

"So... how do you handle it all?"

"Me?" Bruce jerks back, frowning. "I'm not exactly the best role model, Tony."

"No, you are." Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You're a mature, functional adult, current culinary choices aside. What keeps you on the rails?"

"Paralyzing fear of the scary green alternative?"

"Okay, sure, that's the 'why'," Tony says, rolling his eyes. "I'm more interested in the _'how'_. How do you function when the most terrifying thing in the world is always just... right there?" He glances toward the windows, the wide sweep of shadowed skyline outside. How do you ever feel... safe?"

"Tony... people who aren't me, they deal with this kind of thing with varying amounts of drugs and therapy. Some combination of the two, at least in the short term, would probably do you some good after everything you've been through. But drugs don't work on me, and life on the run from the US Army is incompatible with most types of therapy. And when I go off the rails, it doesn't end well for the town. Or the state, actually."

"Fine. But for a guy with no access to the chemical or talking cures, you still seem to have it all remarkably buttoned down."

"I don't," Bruce says sharply. "That's the last thing you should believe about me. You need to understand that I'm not -- stable. My dark corners, Tony? They're really, really dark, and I keep them that way for a reason. Even I can't stand to look into them. If you ever did -- if you could -- you'd understand I'm not who you seem to think I am. I keep it together because I have to, because the consequences of _not_ keeping it together are enormous."

"Hey." Bruce's fingers have gone tense around his spoon; Tony reaches out and carefully, gently, pries them loose. He traps Bruce's hand in his. "I'm not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets here. If you need to bury stuff to cope, I will buy you a golden shovel. Hell, I'll buy two and help you dig the hole. God knows you help me."

Bruce stares down at their joined hands for a long moment, his eyes a little wild. "Okay?" he repeats in a strangled voice, like he's never heard that word before. He clears his throat. "I mean. Yes. Thank you."

"And when you start to feel like that's not working, you can tell me. If you find yourself needing to reach for your standard geographical cure. Is that... is that something you think you might feel the need to do soon?"

"Well, I'm no friend to high-end architecture, that's for sure." Bruce looks around the kitchen, like he expects the windows to shatter, the cabinets to start disintegrating right before his eyes. "I haven't let myself even want to stay anywhere for a very long time. I'm not good for anyplace, Tony. I'm choosing to stay here because… well, because you asked, which is… novel. And because I think maybe this is a place that's good for me. That's, um. That's... mostly down to you." 

An alien sensation overtakes Tony, a creeping warmth in his face that he barely remembers. "Oh."

"You don't make a lot of close personal friends on the run, but… it turns out the ones you do make are the kind worth sticking around for. So you don't have to worry about me vanishing into the night, okay? As long as you're here, I'm here."

Tony's chest feels tight, like he's had the air knocked out of him in the best possible way. He can do this; he can be here, for Bruce's sake, even if here isn't exactly Tony's favorite place these days. Bruce is one of his favorite people, and that's… that's enough. 

"That… that sounds good," Tony says. "I can work with that."

"And it doesn't exactly hurt that you're Iron Man." Bruce gives him a crooked grin. "I mean… you're no Thor, but I think you could give the other guy a run for his money. For a little while, at least."

Tony's chin comes up; it's automatic, he can't even help it. "Is that a challenge I just heard, Doctor Banner? You sure you want to come at me like that, here in my own house?"

Bruce shrugs, unrepentant, and his grin gets wider. "I said what I said."

Tony levels a finger at him and pulls out a smile like a knife. "You heard him, Jarvis. Iron Man v Jolly Green. I've already got some thoughts on upgrades; put it at the top of the project board."

~

In the morning, they regroup in the kitchen. Tony is armed with his phone and a double mocha, Bruce with a family-sized box of protein bars under one arm and an extra shirt and jeans slung over his shoulder. "You never know till you know," Bruce says, shrugging philosophically, and in response Tony pushes back a sleeve to show off the Mark VII bracelet underneath. They're vastly over-prepared for an afternoon run up the coast, but when Fury is involved, it pays to plan for the worst.

Together, they head up to the jet. A milk run like this is a perfect opportunity to put her through her paces. Tony texts Pepper a brief outline of his plans ( _off to rescue cap from some pie_ ) and gets her response ( _#bestlife_ and then a few seconds later, _what kind of pie???_ ). By the time the elevator opens onto the hangar, Jarvis has the Mark VII on board and the jet opened up and waiting for them.

Unfortunately, that's not all that's waiting for them.

"You have really outdone yourself, Stark," a voice says from the cockpit as they head up the ramp. "This thing is a work of art."

Tony rolls his eyes and groans. "Seriously?"

The pilot's chair spins around, and Clint Barton grins down at them. "Awww, you don't have to hide how much you missed me. I know I'm adorable." His eyes flick over to Bruce, and he gives a friendly nod. "Hey, Doc."

"Clint. This is a surprise."

"I'm a little surprised, too. When Fury told me you were living with Stark now, I figured we'd seen the last of your smaller, smarter side."

Bruce glances over at Tony, eyes crinkling. "He's not so bad, if you watch his blood sugar and keep him caffeinated."

Tony levels his finger at Bruce. "See? _This_ guy knows me."

"So, Doc..." Barton jerks his chin toward the spare clothes Bruce is still holding. "You expecting to need those?"

"No, I'm here in a purely non-smashing capacity. This is just my Plan B outfit."

"What's Plan A?"

Bruce gives a small, wry grin. "Avoid Plan B at all costs."

"Can we get back to the very important topic of what the hell you're doing here, Barton? I'm getting really tired of SHIELD abusing my hospitality on a whim."

"Hey, you're the one who said I could drop by any time--"

"Yeah, that was an invitation to hang out, not to infiltrate."

"I can't do both?"

Bruce laughs out loud, a free and open sound Tony doesn't get to hear half as often as he'd like. For that, and that alone, Tony refrains from calling security to toss Barton out on his ass. Instead, he slides into the co-pilot's chair, straps in, and asks, "Does Fury really think we need Earth's Mightiest Heroes to fetch Steve back from a road trip?"

"Hey, I just go where I'm told, and shoot whatever seems to need extra holes," Barton says. "You would be surprised at how many of Fury's innermost thoughts and plans he declines to share with me."

"Should we expect Romanoff to skitter down out of the rafters next?"

"Nah, she's gathering intel, trying to figure out who might be targeting Cap."

Behind them, Bruce stows his things and straps himself into a seat. Barton turns back to the console, closes the ramp, and starts running a pre-flight check. Tony bristles a little -- it's his baby's first time out, he's _entitled_ \-- but he based the controls on the Quinjet's for this very reason, and Barton seems to know what he's doing.

"You know what you're doing, right?" Tony asks, flinching as the engines flare to life.

"Don't tell me you're a nervous flyer, Stark."

"Only when it comes to cutting-edge experimental aircraft and smart-ass pilots."

"So, basically every time you go up in a suit?" Barton glances over at Tony with a smirk. "Relax, Shellhead. If you did your job right, I can do mine."

Take-off goes smoothly -- nothing explodes or catches fire, anyway, which puts it solidly in the top 20% of Tony's test flights. Power consumption spikes, then shifts into an easy, rising arc as they level out and start to pour on speed. It is absolutely quiet inside, no engine hum, no wind noise, because Tony is brilliant and has built a brutally efficient piece of flying art that is almost as perfect as he is himself.

He spins his chair around to make this point to Bruce -- it's worthy of sharing, even if it's patently obvious -- and finds Bruce slumped against his seat, held upright only by the safety harness. Sound asleep.

"Unbelievable," Tony breathes, offended to the core. "His priorities are absolutely impenetrable."

Barton glances back, and his eyebrows go up. "Figures, I guess."

"Figures? That the only other person on the planet capable of understanding the monumental accomplishment you're flying right now -- with only one eyeball, apparently, could you at least pretend to look where you're going? -- would pass out before we even reach cruising altitude?"

"Sleeping like that? Moment's notice, out like a light? That's either narcolepsy or trained behavior. Soldiers, agents -- it's drilled into you. Sleep when the mission lets you, who knows when you'll get another chance. I'm guessing the doc's training was a little less formal."

"Well, he's been a fugitive for most of the last decade, so..."

"Yeah." Barton focuses his attention on the jet's controls, flicking through screens that show him altitude, latitude, longitude. "Think it might go a little further back than that."

"Say what you're trying to say, Barton."

"I'm not trying to say anything. It's just pretty obvious the guy's road was rough long before he got himself irradiated. What you're doing, giving him a safe place to hole up? He probably really needs it." Barton looks up again, looks Tony right in the eye. "You're surprisingly decent, Stark."

Tony pretends to be fascinated by the rush of land beneath them. When he's taken a breath to gather himself, he says, "Same, Clint," and his voice comes out lower and rougher than he'd meant it to.

He looks back at Bruce, just for a second -- he's still asleep, chin tucked over onto his left shoulder, the long line of his throat stretched too far for comfort. It makes him look younger by decades, vulnerable in a way Tony doesn't really like. How old was Bruce when he learned to snatch sleep out of the teeth of chaos? How far back, exactly, does that rough road go? 

"We're here," Clint says. His voice is pitched low, just for Tony, but in their quiet bubble, it's enough to bring Bruce blinking back to consciousness. "Putting her on the ground."

"Ahh...sorry," Bruce says, straightening up and giving his head a shake. "What did I miss?"

"Not much," Tony says, flashing Bruce a grin. "Just the virgin flight of my aeronautic masterwork. Went great, by the way. I'm thinking of turning it in for the two...three...possibly four doctorates this groundbreaking scientific endeavor represents. I just have to decide which institution of higher learning deserves my patronage."

Off to the side, Tony can see Clint rolling his eyes, but all Tony's attention is on Bruce, whose face has lit up in a wide, amused grin. "You had a little help, you know," he says. "I think at least one of those doctorates has my name on it."

"Please," Tony scoffs. "Like you haven't already collected the whole set."

"Did I mention we're here?" Clint releases the catch on his harness and stands up, dropping a friendly hand on Tony's shoulder on his way out of the cockpit. "Great landing. Four stars. Would've been five, but there was this annoying buzz in my right ear all the way down..."

Bruce tips his head back against his seat and laughs, and Tony decides on the spot that if Clint can keep making that happen, he's welcome to fly Tony's uberjet any time.

~

The plan is to meet Steve for lunch at the diner where they found him the day before. It isn't in what most civilized people would call a town, but in New England any gap in the trees large enough to park a car automatically sprouts a town council and a historical society. It's got a church, a community college, and a Dunkin Donuts, so it's town enough for Massachusetts.

Clint lands them a few hundred meters from the diner and the main road, behind a wooded line that provides all the cover they don't really need. From twenty feet away, there's a faint shimmer where the light bends around the jet's sleek curves; from thirty feet away, there's no evidence it exists.

"Cloaking device!" Clint pronounces, eyes wide. "That is _cool_."

"Retro-reflective panels," Bruce says. "Stealth mode. Definitely cool."

"Okay," Tony says, "you are both on my Christmas list indefinitely," which makes Bruce grin and Clint narrow his eyes in unrepentant avarice.

They're not expecting trouble, so the walk to the diner is a quiet amble right up until they reach the parking lot. That's where they find Cap's bike tipped over on its side halfway out of its parking space, his helmet on the pavement ten feet away with a crack spidering up through the face plate.

Underneath the bike, in a brown canvas sack, they find Steve's shield.

The three of them share a look that requires no interpretation. Tony feels his breath coming faster, and at the same time, his mind settles down, his thoughts moving in swift, clean lines. The Mark VII's bracelets are cool weights against his wrists, comforting even as he decides not to deploy -- not just yet. Bruce kneels down to check the pavement for any signs of blood, and Clint strolls casually into the diner to make sure Rogers isn't there -- maybe exchanging insurance information with a reckless driver, lecturing him with grave, kind eyes on the dangers of exceeding the posted speed limit.

"No blood," Bruce says, coming back to Tony's side. "But I found this." He drops it into Tony's cupped palm: a tiny in-ear transmitter, somewhat the worse for wear. Tony recognizes it because he's wearing its twin in his own ear, as are Bruce and Clint.

"Well, that's not good news."

"No, not really." Bruce just looks at Tony, his mouth a thin, pale line, his eyes dark and opaque. "I should go back to the jet," he says reluctantly. "It's not a good idea for me to be here. Not until we know what's going on."

Tony wants to argue with that, but he can see there's no point. Bruce's self-control may be impressive, but it's his resolve that's truly epic. In matters concerning the Hulk, he's absolutely immovable.

"Go," Tony says with a quick nod. "Stay on comms, though. Something like this, we may need the smartest Avenger more than we need the strongest."

Bruce clasps Tony's shoulder warmly before making for the tree-line and the jet. Tony watches until he's out of sight, then turns to see Clint coming back toward him across the asphalt.

"No cameras, so no security footage. Waitress says he got a call and left about an hour ago. She didn't see anybody with him."

"I can see him losing the bike and comms to ditch me, maybe. But ditch Bruce? No way. Somebody's got him. I just wish they'd taken the helmet, too."

"Tracker?" Clint's eyes narrow. "You were expecting something like this?"

"Like this?" Tony lets out a low, humorless laugh. "No. I was a little worried he'd get lost and decide he never wanted to be found, but I never thought he was in actual danger."

"So you bugged him in case he pulled a runner."

"About half my therapy bills could've been avoided if my dad had lo-jacked Rogers back when he had the chance," Tony says drily. "I wasn't keen on repeating his mistakes."

"Well, here's hoping you're smarter than your old man, Stark. I got plans for the next seventy years that don't involve an obsessive hunt for Captain America."

"You and me both, Legolas. Which is why we're gonna kick this operation up a notch." Tony smiles at Clint's questioning look and says, "Bruce, satellites?"

"Nothing. But there's a security feed from the gas station across the street that gets most of the parking lot. I've got something a little...weird. Steve comes out, and a blue Honda Civic pulls in, knocks over the bike, rolls over the helmet. A man and a woman, from what I can tell. The man was wearing a ball cap; the woman had dark hair. Steve leans in the window on the passenger side, then after a minute he gets in the back seat. They drive off, heading south on the highway."

"Then I guess that's where we're going. You say they just talked? No punching, no--"

"No violence of any kind. Two, maybe three minutes from the time Steve came out to the time they drove off. I don't know -- it looks innocent, it could be nothing, but..."

"But it doesn't feel like nothing."

"I'm a suspicious man, Tony."

"One of your finest qualities. Clint?"

"If Steve's headed south, I say we do the same. Only we do it faster, and with more firepower."

"Agreed." Tony pushes back his sleeves. "Jarvis, is my dry cleaning ready?"

"As ever, sir."

"Bruce, open the hatch and stand back. Let Fury know the Captain's been yanked off the grid and we're in pursuit. Stay on the satellites, and don't be a wallflower -- if you get anything more, give a shout."

"I'm on it," Bruce says, his voice already distant and distracted. "Suit's on the way. Fly safe."

Seconds later, the suit closes around him like a gentle fist, blacking out the world around him and then lighting it up in vivid, brilliant detail. He takes a deep breath of the cool, sterile air that circulates around him and everything comes into crystal clear focus.

He pops out the suit's shoulder turrets for makeshift handholds and presents his back to Clint.

"No, no, no. Are you kidding me? Please say you're kidding me right now."

"No can do," Tony says, sorry Clint can't see his grin. "It's my turn to drive."

~

Bruce is... annoyed. He's definitely not angry, because getting angry right now would not be conducive to maintaining the structural integrity of the jet. To take his mind off it, he flips between satellite feeds, traffic cams, security cams -- all helpfully displayed by Jarvis, who has unsurprisingly been coded with zero respect for the security of systems other than his own.

The car shows up twice more, once zipping past a rest stop at a speed that is both illegal and inadvisable, and once on a small, dusty road that peels off from the highway and appears to go exactly nowhere. Bruce relays the information to Tony and Clint, thinks happy thoughts about sunsets and puppies for two long, tense, empty minutes and then the next feed he gets comes through Iron Man's suit, pacing the car from high above.

"Got 'em," Tony says, and there's a note of relief and triumph in his voice that brings a sharp, vicious smile to Bruce's face.

So...maybe he's a _little_ angry.

"Shall we peel back the colorful candy shell?" Clint asks.

"No," Bruce says. "Let's see where they're taking him."

"I don't like not having eyes on him--"

"It's fine, Clint. They may have drugged him, but they won't mess with him during transport. Just...just don't let them get him into a building." Bruce's hands are sweating; he rubs them against his jeans, then curls them into tight, painful fists. "Behind closed doors is where things get bad."

There's a brief quiet over the comms, a hiss of dead air. Then Tony says, "Copy that, big guy -- no doors between us and Cap," and Clint mutters something Bruce can't quite hear through the thick, green fog that's beginning to close in around him.

Because it's not fair. It's not _right_.

Bruce knows who to blame for the Other Guy. He doesn't delude himself. He had been unpardonably naive and blindingly arrogant. He had _trusted Thaddeus Ross_ , and he had believed, with disastrous stupidity, in his own infallibility. And so to some extent, on some level, he has always known he deserves to be hunted, maybe even deserves to be caught. He runs not because he thinks he deserves to be free, but because _he_ is the only person he trusts to contain the unstoppable force he sometimes becomes.

But that's _him_. That's the fair price come due for turning himself into a roaming global catastrophe. It's not _Captain America_ , rebuilt from the ground up from nothing but brain and heart and good intentions. It's not Steve, who's barely more than a kid, who has already been through more and worse than most men see in their entire lives and has come out better for it, somehow.

Steve Rogers shouldn't have to pay even a penny of what Bruce Banner owes.

"Hey," Tony says, "you're a little quiet over there, Banner. How's your complexion? Jarvis, interior view of the jet, please--"

"I'm fine," Bruce grates out, and though he is demonstrably not fine, he drags himself back from the edge. A surly upwelling of frustration pushes feverishly at the bars of the cage it's locked in, and Bruce pushes back, _hard_. "I'm fine," he says again, letting his breath ease out slow and steady. Taking another slow breath in. "Tell me what's happening out there."

Tony has to know Bruce is seeing exactly what's happening out there, but his voice comes through immediately. "Well, there are a lot of trees here in eastern Massachusetts. Possibly all the trees. And this road is going through them like a pinball on meth. Its curves have curves. Some of them might be spirals. Who even builds a road like this?"

"Cows," Bruce says. "The colonists just paved over their tracks, I think."

"Drunk cows," Tony mutters. "When this is all over, I'm going to want a shot of whatever they were having."

"Yeah," Clint says, "I'm definitely flying us home, you lush."

"I meant _at_ home, Barton. There's no beverage service on the Avenjet."

Bruce's eyebrows rocket together, and over comms Clint's voice climbs into a higher register. "That's not what we're calling it, is it?"

"It's great, right? I just came up with it!" Tony's voice is immeasurably smug.

Bruce grins -- he can almost _see_ the insufferable expression that goes with that tone -- and the static buzz of violence in his mind fades back to a low, steady hum. "Tony, I think I can speak for the full team when I say we will never, ever call it that."

"Shut it, Banner," Tony shoots back, "You love it and you know it. Meanwhile, we now have structures, they're pulling off. Intermission's over, kids, we are back to the main feature."

There are three structures: an ancient, dilapidated barn; a shack with only half its roof on and a door hanging by one disinterested hinge; and a much smaller building in slightly better repair that looks something like an outhouse. The clarity of the video coming through Tony's feed is amazing, and Bruce finds he's able to zoom in and out at will, even if he can't redirect. He watches as the blue Honda civic pulls into a barren dirt clearing between the three buildings and rolls to a slow, careful stop.

No one gets out.

"Tony," Bruce says, "can you get any closer? See anything through the windows?"

"If I get any closer, the curtain's going up on this show. Is it that time?"

Bruce hesitates. He appreciates Tony letting him make this call, but the sensation of holding Steve's life in his hands is not a comfortable one. Logic tells him they should let things play out a little further, learn as much as they can unobserved. If it were him -- if he were in the back of that car, with friends watching over him unseen from above, he'd want them to wait.

But it's not him, it's _Steve_. And it's not logic that tells Tony, "Yeah, okay, do it. Get him out."

Three things happen at once:

The images on the screen get bigger, clearer, as Tony descends rapidly toward the car.

The ground beneath the car drops away, sucks it down into the earth below.

And a dirt-covered, camouflaged panel slides back into its place, like there was never a car there at all.

Bruce's heart rate kicks into a gallop, the green haze descending, the rage battering against him from the cellar of his mind, roaring with a desperate need to break _free_ \--

"Fuck," Tony shouts over comms, "What the fuck kind of Bond supervillain bullshit is _that_ \--"

\-- and that's what Bruce holds onto, human words in a human voice, strung together into a line to follow back to himself.

"Crap, Bruce, don't -- look it's not technically a door, and I swear we are not leaving Steve on the other side of it, okay? Don't do anything rash, I still need your brain more than your brawn, just hold it together."

On the other side of doors like that one, whether they're doors or not, there are wires and tubes, scalpels, bone saws, needles that bite and blood that drips and flesh that peels back. Pain that is endless, fear that blots out the world. Behind doors like that is where the monsters go to be studied and broken open and taken apart.

Even the very young and small ones.

Even the ones that don't yet know they're monsters.

Bruce remembers. And this is key, because remembering is for the past, not the now. In the now, he's far away and safe, and someone else is behind the door, and maybe, _maybe_ Steve will need the monster. _Maybe--_

"--not answering, fuck, we're totally going to have to rebuild the jet--"

"--does Hulk have comms, how would that even work--"

_but_

"--when exactly would I have had time to build and test _Hulk_ comms, Birdbrain--"

"I don't know, man, I thought you were some kind of genius engineer, but I guess --"

_not ...yet._

Not _now._

Calm and low as he can make it, Bruce's voice cuts through the chatter. "Could... could we please refocus on saving Captain America? Because you guys really don't seem to do well without adult supervision."

Silence spools out into the hiss of empty air until Tony says, "Well, that's just hurtful, Doctor Banner," and Clint laughs in wildly transparent relief.

Bruce closes his eyes, warmth settling in behind his ribs. He holds onto that connection, and uses it to tether himself to the moment. It's easier than he expects to let out a shaky breath and say, "Sorry. Don't worry, I'm okay. Tony, what can you see?"

"Exactly nothing, there's some kind of interference that's blocking all but the visible spectrum. This may be a more advanced operation than we expected. Why am I even surprised? I bet Fury wouldn't be surprised. Any takers? I'll bet you guys a million dollars Nick fucking Fury knew exactly--"

"Let's just stay focused on getting Steve out of here, for now. We can ponder the ineffable plans of Nick fucking Fury later. Has anybody noticed we're out here?"

"Well, nothing's trying to kill us yet, so..."

"Then you two look for a way in while I bring in the jet." Bruce drops into the pilot's seat and buckles in. "I'm thinking we may need my special skills."

~

It's Jarvis who finds the way in, locating and infiltrating the heart of the system that runs the base. Tony would crow about it, except exactly no one is surprised. The ground opens up for them just as Bruce steps out of a shimmer in the air beside the barn. He comes down the invisible ramp with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, unarmed and unarmored, and Tony's breath catches at how small he looks, how deceptively breakable next to Clint's compact bulk and the suit.

He's got his case for Bruce staying with the jet all ready to go. Bruce likes to stay Bruce, and Bruce is fragile when he's Bruce, so unless he wants to be not-Bruce he should really hang back. It makes very little objective sense but it definitely makes Tony feel better. He's got his faceplate up and is ready to start his opening statement when Jarvis says in his ear, "Sir, we have guests incoming."

"Yay," Clint says with no inflection. "I love a good party."

"What," Tony says, "and how many?"

"Two transport vehicles have just turned off the main road and are headed in your direction. Two minutes out, maximum. Heat signatures indicate forty non-friendlies in total. I'm picking up no chatter on any expected channels, possibly due to the interference we detected earlier. It appears to block all but short-range communications."

Bruce breaks into a jog, already talking when he pulls up next to Tony. "You hang out here," he says, "keep an eye on things, keep the exit point clear. You're more effective in open air anyway. I'll bring Steve out if I can. If I run into trouble --" He shrugs, hint of a smile showing at the corner of his mouth. "You'll know."

This is a terrible plan, and it makes Tony intensely uncomfortable. The fact that he can't find any overt flaw in it makes him want to tear something apart with his teeth. No matter what he knows, no matter what he's _seen_ , the idea of sending Bruce alone into the depths of the creepy unknown whatever is just heart-breakingly bad.

"My lizard-brain would like to register its emphatic objection," Tony says. He lets Bruce see him rolling his eyes at himself, and the smile Bruce was mostly hiding comes out for real.

"Mine, too," Bruce says gently. "Thanks."

Tony nods, feeling better and worse at the same time. This entire fiasco is escalating rapidly in a direction he doesn't like, with no way to turn aside or put on the brakes, but this -- this is a good moment. For longer than he can strictly rationalize, he can't bring himself to look away. 

And then, since he can't really do anything else, he closes his faceplate and steps back from the entrance. "Forty hostiles. That's what, ten minutes?" he says. "You won't even have time to miss me. I will be right behind you."

Bruce lifts a hand over his head in a quick, final wave as he sets off into the dark.

~

Tony's attention divides unevenly at the entrance to the underground lair of evil. The part he reserves for the incoming bad guys is... suboptimal. The rest stays with Bruce Banner, world's most tragic babysitter, and the perpetual apocalyptic tantrum he carries inside him.

He takes to the sky as the trucks roll to a stop. Clint fades effortlessly into the trees. Black-clad soldiers pour into the clearing beneath him, and his combat overlay pops into view. The sharper focus in the outer world brings a sharper focus inside; his thoughts flow faster, shine brighter. The beauty of the suit isn't just in the safety of the armor or the strength of its firepower; the beauty of the suit is in the way it amplifies _him_ and simplifies everything else.

One of the enemy combatants speeds up and breaks away from the others; the bad guy count drops from forty to thirty-seven as that orange dot turns blue and two more go dark at once. A grin splits Tony's face when a smoky voice murmurs in his ear, "Ten whole minutes, huh? Where's that famous Stark confidence I hear so much about?"

Tony targets five guys with his shoulder missiles, dodging strafing fire effortlessly with a repulsor blast just for the sheer joy of movement. "Black Widow, welcome to the party!"

"Not as impressive as the last one you invited me to," she says. An oddly synchronized set of screams ring out from below as twin bites strike home in two different targets, blue fire lancing out from Nat's gloved hands. "And the band kind of sucks."

"Yeah, well, I didn't hire them. Hey, your date is around here somewhere," Tony says. His camera obligingly zeroes in on a blue dot in the trees, and Tony takes out two soldiers heading towards it. "Just follow the trail of bodies. Mine's underground, looking for Cap."

Nat's trajectory shifts, heading for Clint's spot in the trees. Tony clears the path before her, and the count of enemy soldiers drops again. A couple of bullets ping off his armor, harmless, and Tony lazily picks off two more orange dots with a single repulsor shot. "That'll teach them to bunch up," he says gleefully. "Amateurs!"

Together, the three of them clear the field. Nat darts in and out of the trees, keeping their new friends focused on her movements while Clint drops them from cover, two exploding arrows at a time. Tony hits two live guys and four dead ones with missiles before switching to beams only, just to keep up.

"Sir," Jarvis says sharply, "I have detected a device inside the truck nearest your position. I am unable to determine its nature or purpose, but it is drawing a large amount of power from what appears to be a--"

A beam as wide as a basketball lances out from the rear section of the truck. It misses Tony by inches, by sheer luck, veering off harmlessly into the sky. "Holy _crap_ , J, where the hell did --"

"It is retargeting," Jarvis says calmly. "Assuming flight control for defensive maneuvers. Please stand by."

Tony forces his limbs loose and relaxed as Jarvis takes over; he's learned the hard way that fighting the suit invites a world of pain. "Why didn't we see this coming?"

"The device is shielded and was thus invisible to my sensors until it began to consume power."

"Well, what the hell is it?"

"It appears to be some sort of laser cannon." Another bolt of energy sizzles past, and the suit jolts and rolls. Tony rolls with it, arms flung wide, and the unibeam flashes out from his chest. It's a solid hit on the cannon, but -- "Minimal effect," Jarvis reports. "It will take several more strikes at full power to penetrate the shielding."

"Give it all we've got, J," Tony orders. "Nat, Clint, I'm in a little trouble up here -- can somebody get to the --"

"On it," Natasha says, "Clint, build me a road."

"Just follow the pretty lights, Nat." A perfectly straight line of explosions clears a line between Natasha and the truck, and she follows them, disappearing into drifting smoke. Tony can't spare more than a second's attention; the cannon is firing again, tracking him across the sky like a clay pigeon. The suit jerks left, then upwards, Jarvis managing to keep him just ahead of the energy bolts. 

"I'm at the truck, Tony, let up a minute," Natasha says, and Jarvis switches from fire to pure evasion. Faster than Tony could, faster than merely human reflexes would allow, the suit banks under another blast of light and races upward, upward, up, higher and higher into the deep blue vault of the sky. 

In seconds, the ground is so far below that detail is lost to the eye. "Any higher and we'll have to file a flight plan, Jarvis--"

"Leveling at 28,000 feet, sir. The laser cannon is still drawing power, but is no longer firing on us."

On the open channel, Tony says, "Natasha, you do good work. On my way back to help with clean-up." He clicks back over to private and adds, "Hey, Jarvis, mind if I drive for a while? I brought my learner's permit and everything."

"My apologies, Mr. Stark, but I assumed you would prefer to survive the encounter. If that assumption is in error, perhaps a code update--"

"You did good, J. Thanks for the save. Now, gimme back my keys." 

Control returns to him like a shift in gravity, the suit once again buoyant and responsive to his slightest movements. Tony hovers, getting his bearings, then checks out the action below. He zooms in, finding only a few enemy combatants left on the field -- and those are being handily dispatched by Clint, who is no longer bothering with stealth at this point. Natasha is somewhere out of sight, no doubt doing creatively vicious things to bad guys who really ought to know better--

The suit jerks crazily sideways, off-kilter, and heat blazes across Tony's chest. Internal alarms flash blindingly across the screens, everything good and safe and blue in the world going red. "Jarvis! I thought you said that thing was --"

"Second cannon detected--".

"No shit! What are we doing about it?"

"--suit controls have been damaged, rerouting, please stand by--"

"We've got you, Stark," Clint snaps out over the open channel, "you just worry about staying in the air." 

That _is_ usually his primary concern, and he's well into worrying about it when another bolt hits him in the side. The armor spins, and the next bolt takes him in the back. Something shakes loose, something gives, and for a second, 

just a barest breath of a second

He is falling. 

_Falling._

His chest moves within the suit, but there's no air, his eyes track across the screens but there's nothing to see, just a deep and frozen blackness, just silence, endless freefall from nothing into nothing and he can't _breathe_ \--

"Iron Man, pull up," Clint says sharply. "You're falling too fast--"

"Suit reactor compromised," Jarvis says, "switching to primary power source." 

"Second cannon neutralized." Natasha's voice is half-static and thready, miles away. "Stark, respond."

"Can't breathe, J." Tony's chest convulses again, empty, useless. "Can't."

"Sir, you can. You are. I have reconnected the suit to your internal arc reactor for primary system power, I will have flight control in approximately ten seconds."

"Where… where are we, J, I can't--are we still--"

"Goddamn it, Tony, don't you _dare_ \--," Clint shouts, his voice a roar even the alarms can't drown out. Tony wants to respond, he really does, but his voice, his brain, nothing's working, the suit isn't working, his lungs are on fire--

"We are experiencing technical difficulties," Jarvis says on the open channel, "Please stand by--" and Clint's voice cuts off in the middle of a word. Privately, his voice low and reassuring, Jarvis adds, "Flight control re-acquired, sir."

A tiny jolt, barely even there, and the fall becomes a swift and brutal arc. Before Tony's eyes, screens come back to life. The ground speeds by beneath him, close enough to stall his heart all over again, close enough to taste the dirt. Jarvis slows them down, eases the suit's flight into a long, graceful curve that ends, hovering, just above the trees. 

"Are you well, sir?" Jarvis asks carefully. 

He is _not_ well. But he can see; that's something. He can feel the pull of the earth again, feel the repulsors pushing against it. He can breathe, cool air flooding into him, tasting like coconuts. His heartbeat is hard and painful in his chest and his terror is absolutely incandescent, but Clint and Natasha are racing toward him across the littered battlefield, faces upturned. Clint's hand is at his ear, and Tony can see his mouth moving, shaping Tony's name. 

"I'm good," he says, and he is -- or will be. Because he has to be. Cap is still underground somewhere, and Bruce with him. He still has work to do. 

"Sir--" 

"I'm good _enough_ , J. Best I can do for now." He shoves aside everything but the mission. "Open up comms and take us down."

~

The feed in Bruce's ear dips into static as he leaves the light behind him. He drops it into his pocket and pans the light from his phone across the floor in front of him, revealing a long hallway wide enough to accommodate a tank. That... seems like a terrible sign.

The empty car is stopped slantwise across the hallway a hundred feet in; next to it, Bruce finds two unfortunate souls with duct tape wrapped around their wrists and feet and mouths in thick layers. He crouches down next to the woman he saw with Steve on the security feed, and her eyes widen -- first in recognition, then in terror.

"Don't worry." He smiles at her kindly as he checks to make sure she's breathing freely and her circulation is unimpaired. "The other guy doesn't usually take an interest unless I'm in danger, and you two don't seem like much of a threat. Bet you're wishing you'd thought things through before you tried to steal Captain America, though, huh?" Bruce turns his attention to the man next, moving quickly, establishing that he's unlikely to suffocate or lose any extremities. Steve did good work.

"Of course, when there is a threat..." Bruce shrugs, and his smile sharpens as he stands up. "Honestly, I don't get much of a say in what happens in that situation."

Further down the corridor, there are more ex-assailants to check over. Like breadcrumbs, Bruce just follows the trail of bodies. The first five or six are bound, but after a while Steve must have run out of either patience or duct tape, because the ones he finds after that are just unconscious. Some of them are dressed in camouflage or black fatigues, the kind Clint tends to favor; those bodies seem a little more aggressively unconscious than the ones wearing lab coats or civilian clothes.

The corridor leads to a door that opens into a hallway -- white walls and white linoleum on the floors, bars of fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Bruce is not at all fond of the hospital stylings; hospitals with armed guards are rarely healthy for their patients. The door is open, just a crack, rendering the security card reader next to it useless. The overhead light just inside the door is out, leaving a well of shadow beneath it. Further down, the lights flicker randomly.

Like something out of a horror movie, Bruce's brain supplies unhelpfully. He suppresses a shudder, resolutely not thinking about damp, white-faced murder-ghosts in hospital gowns, and pushes the door open.

Something catches at his foot as he slips through, a white hand in a white sleeve, and the green wave is almost upon him when the hand strikes the ground with a limp thud and the unconscious body it's attached to slumps to the floor after it. Bruce snatches consciousness back and clutches it tight, slowing his breathing, thinking hard about good coffee and midnight Thai food runs with Tony and sunlight slanting through the windows of his lab. Pleasant things, things that make him happy, or as happy as he knows how to be, anyway. 

Control comes back slow but steady; either he's getting better at this, or Hulk doesn't care for Japanese horror flicks either.

"From now on," Bruce mutters, leaning heavily against the wall as his heart rate returns to normal, " _I_ pick the movies."

The hallway is deserted. He keeps walking, passing the darkened windows and closed doors of empty rooms along the way. After the first few rooms yield nothing of interest, he chooses speed over accuracy and stops checking. When he reaches an intersection, he looks down each untraveled branch and takes the one to his left; it's the only one with a body at the end of it. He's kneeling to check for a steady pulse when the sound of a grunt and a heavy thud echoes down the hall from somewhere ahead.

If there's one positive thing Bruce can take away from his years hiding out from Thunderbolt Ross, it's the ability to launch from a standstill to a blazing run at a second's notice. He can do it half-naked from a dead sleep; he can absolutely do it from an alert crouch, wearing five thousand dollar running shoes purchased for him as a joke by Tony Stark.

Faster than ten out of ten Hulkbuster grunts would have thought possible, he rounds the corner at the end of the corridor and finds himself at the edge of a pitched battle.

Relief hits Bruce hard enough to knock him down. In the center of a crowd of shouting soldiers is Steve Rogers -- red-faced, one cheek swollen hugely and already starting to bruise, but alive, and still fighting.

Steve's shirt is torn at the collar, soaking up blood from a jagged gash at his hairline, and as Bruce watches, his heart rate spiking, Steve goes down. A white-coated man comes out of a room on the left side of the corridor with a syringe and what looks like a high tech version of a cattle prod.

"For God's sake, hold him!" the man shouts.

"It ain't that easy, pal," one of the soldiers snaps, but with the numbers they've brought to bear, it's getting easier by the second.

Steve shoves one of the soldiers off him hard enough to send him crashing into the wall; his foot lashes out at another, who lets out a scream before slumping to the floor. There's a focused calm in him, the same kind of calm Bruce feels in his lab, the kind he imagines Tony feels working on the jet or his suits. Steve's doing the work he was made to do, calculating angles and force and probabilities with every breath, pushing past all his limits.

But with these odds it's not going to be enough, so Bruce wades in.

He pulls one of the soldiers off Steve with nothing but muscle and righteous indignation. The next takes a little more technique. There's a hope -- a slim, probably vain hope -- that if he can just take some of the heat off, Steve can turn the tide on his own. Bruce lands an elbow in another soldier's throat, sending him gagging to the floor, and drops another with a kick to the side of his knee that will likely end his military career. Or whatever the hell career he's in -- no telling who these guys are, but Bruce isn't getting an Army vibe. They're too disorganized, too rowdy, and they're winning this fight on their numbers, not their skills.

Bruce takes a blow to the stomach, hard enough to double him over. He turns it into a roll, and that gets him close to the guy with the needle. He takes it away from him, slams the heel of his hand into his nose, and stabs the needle into the neck of the nearest soldier, one of the guys holding Steve down. He empties the syringe, and that guy drops like a rock. For a moment his vision greens out -- they were going to put that stuff in _Steve_ \-- but in the next moment Steve is grabbing for his hand and Bruce recovers enough to haul him up.

"You're stronger than you look," Steve says, eyes wide and impressed.

Bruce is surprised into a bark of laughter. "Yeah. I get that a lot."

Steve lashes out sideways with a fist so fast it blurs. Bruce wipes blood out of his eyes and sets his back against Steve's; it's as good as having a wall back there. A tense, held breath rushes out of him, taking some of the fight-or-flight with it.

"You know, you seem oddly familiar." Steve spins into a kick that takes down two of the soldiers at once and gives them a little breathing room. He shoots Bruce a quick, crooked grin over his shoulder. "It's Banner, right?"

"Oh, great," Bruce says, "You brought jokes. I left mine back at the Tower."

"What, you thought I'd show up to a fight unarmed? I'm a professional. Duck, please."

Bruce drops, and Steve launches himself over his head to land on a particularly large and unfriendly opponent. Steve hits him hard and low, takes his legs out from under him, hits him again in the lower back. He stays down. Bruce takes an off-center hit to his shoulder as he rises, steadies himself, then puts his foot into the gut of the next guy to come at him.

But the soldiers keep coming, until Bruce loses count. His arms get heavier by the second, his strikes have less and less power. The serum doesn't help him, not like it helps Steve; it taught his body exactly one trick, and he hates to play it.

He takes one last man down by landing on his face with an elbow, purely by accident, and that's it -- that's the last hit he has in him. But it's enough. When he stumbles to his feet, wiping sweat and blood out of his eyes, there's only one soldier left standing, and Steve's got him.

"You guys may not know it yet," Steve says to the man in front of him, "but you're vastly outnumbered here. Might want to consider surrendering, before somebody gets hurt."

He gets a sneer in response. For that rudeness, Steve takes his gun away, flips it around and smashes the butt into his face. Steve grins at Bruce across the soldier's sprawled, unconscious body and shrugs. "Can't say I didn't warn him."

Bruce laughs, and sags against Steve. "No, he can't. You okay?"

"Who, me? I'm fine," Steve tells him. He gives Bruce a once-over, wincing a little when the examination reaches his face. "You, on the other hand--"

"Yeah. You might be carrying me out of here."

"Gotta say, when you showed up, that's not how I saw this playing out. You're a man of hidden talents, Doctor--"

Steve frowns, his eyes going distant. "Doc..."

"Steve?"

Steve. Steve is. His hand--

"Steve!"

\--is reaching. Fingers hooked into claws, reaching up to his neck. There's a dart buried in his skin, blue-tipped. Small.

Just a tiny, tiny thing.

Bruce watches Steve's fingers close around it, watches him pull it out, watches a drop of blood swell and trickle down from the wound. Watches, as Steve drops to his knees. Steve's eyes glaze and shutter, and he pitches forward against Bruce's legs as Bruce turns in horror, in rage, to face the enemy who _dared_ put his friend on the ground.

It's just a man. Not even a soldier. White coat, brown hair. Unremarkable, nondescript. He's nothing. He's no one. His face is bloodless, and Bruce can see his hands shaking as the tranquilizer gun falls from them, can see the whites of his eyes as they roll up to gaze at him in terror.

"That was a mistake," Bruce says gently. He removes his glasses and crouches down, setting them carefully in Steve's open hand. When he looks up again, his eyes feel hot and dry, and his vision is sharper than it's ever been.

This man is nothing, no one. But he has made a mortal error, and he knows it.

 _What I must look like,_ Bruce wonders with the last of his reason. _What I must_ be _, to make someone look at me like that._

But he knows; he's always known. He knows exactly what he is, and he welcomes it in as his mind melts away.

~

"Falling down on the job is not a good look for you, Stark." Natasha pushes up into Tony's space, tapping on the side of his faceplate until he opens it. "What was that?"

"Spontaneous gravity testing." His voice comes out a lot more even than his keel. "Works a treat. Thanks for killing those cannons, by the way; those things sting a bit." 

"Tony, I swear to God, my heart can't take much more of that kind of thing." Clint grabs the shoulder of the suit and gives his erstwhile handhold a shake. "I thought -- Christ. You okay?"

An unfamiliar warmth rises in Tony's chest; glancing between the two of them, he starts to smile. "You guys _like_ me!" he says. "O. M. G. you totally do!" He laughs, suffused with the residual joy of not dying today after all, and puts an arm around each of them. 

Nat shoves at his arm, but tellingly doesn't move to evade it. Clint just rolls his eyes. "We like having air support," he says, rapping on Tony's chest where the suit's disconnected arc reactor glows uselessly in its casing. "Try not to blow it for us."

"You two are so adorable. And so deadly! Just look at this place." The clearing is filled with smoke and fallen bodies, some of which seem unlikely to get up again. "Are there any left for me, or did you collect the whole set?"

"A few took off into the trees, but that's not your problem." Clint steps back, and pulls his bow from his back. "Your ten minutes are up. You head inside; we'll mop up and keep the door open for you."

"If you're sure--" Tony begins, but Nat's eyes flash as blue as her Widow's bites and he changes course, nodding rapidly. "Okay! You seem pretty sure. Jarvis--"

"I will scan for any further incursions and will remain in contact with Hawkeye and Black Widow from the Avenjet."

Tony laughs out loud at Clint's exaggerated groan. "You're the best, J," he says as flips his faceplate closed and dives toward the mouth of the tunnel. "Keep the kids in line till I get back."

Inside, the corridors are too narrow for effective air maneuvers. He lands and proceeds on foot -- still faster than he could on his own, but feeling clumsy, more like an unhorsed knight than a flying superhero. It's better down here, though; it's easier. His brain feels wrung out, his thoughts slippery and hard to hold, but the ground is solid under his armored feet. Cool air slides in and out of his lungs and it's exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. He could sleep for days or go on like this forever -- whatever the situation seems to call for. 

He resolutely doesn't think about losing his mind in the middle of a mission. He doesn't think about getting his ass pulled out of freefall by Jarvis, who has more than earned his own superhero chops today. Those are problems for tomorrow; he has other things to think about just now.

The lights in the corridor flicker, and Jarvis compensates automatically. Orange dots flare on Tony's screens as he passes taped-up evil-doers at every turn. He moves through a half-closed doorway, stepping over an unconscious scientist laid out carefully on the floor, and a rumble begins somewhere further along in the darkness, and builds to a distant, familiar roar.

Ten minutes, Tony reminds himself. His eyes close briefly in resignation. Just _barely_ ten minutes! Who gets pissed enough to Hulk out in under ten minutes?

Bruce fucking Banner, that's who.

He arrives on the scene just as Hulk is winding down. There are broken bodies everywhere -- literally broken, often in multiple places -- but most of them seem to be breathing. Hulk is on his ass in the middle of the worst of the mayhem, scratching idly at his nose; Rogers sits beside him, blinking up at Tony through wide, dilated eyes.

Something tight and unpleasant in Tony's gut starts to unspool at the sight of them. Safe and -- well, mostly sound. "Hey, Jolly Green. Cap. Are you guys dispensing justice down here without me? I feel hurt. Hurt and disrespected."

Hulk raises a hand in greeting, grins at him, and says, "Hey, Tin Man! You late."

The expression on Hulk's face is welcoming -- almost sweet. Tony's had scarier hellos from some of his board members, who don’t have Hulk's built-in gamma-beast excuse. He's going to be playing this terrifying moment back for Bruce a _lot_. Definitely while gloating; possibly while doing some kind of elaborate victory dance.

"You know how it is, Big Guy. Had some bad guys to smash upstairs." He opens up the suit and steps out, mainly to remind Hulk that there's a person underneath all the metal. "We would have invited you, but it looks like you were having your own little smash party without us."

"Star Man smash _everything_ ," Hulk says, casting Steve a dark glance that would have broken the nerve of any lesser man.

"Star Man had help," Steve says drily. He pushes to his feet, wobbling a little before steadying himself against Hulk's shoulder. He waves a hand at the downed ranks of subterranean villains. "About half of that was Banner."

"Seriously?" Tony blinks. "Banner 1.0?"

"This one, not Banner," Hulk says firmly, pointing. "This one Hulk's."

That's when Tony realizes Hulk has taken a prisoner.

"Oh...kaaaaay," he says, eyebrows climbing into his hairline."Uh, what did that guy do to deserve... that? I ask mainly to ensure that whatever it is, I never, ever do it."

"Well, he was trying to take me down, and he got closer to succeeding than most of these other guys," Steve says, blushing a little. "Bruce didn't take too kindly to that."

"He's still breathing," Tony notes, nudging the unconscious scientist-type villain with his shoe. Just _barely_ breathing; the man is trapped against the floor, one giant green thigh across his chest. "Couldn't have been _that_ mad."

"He got lucky." Steve picks up the tranq gun lying on the ground next to Hulk's ... yeah, Tony's just going to stick with 'prisoner'... and pops open the ammunition chamber. "He vastly underestimated the amount of--" Steve squints at the tiny print on the barrel of the needle "--Tetrodotoxin D? That they'd need to keep me under. I woke up in time to intervene."

"Just smash," Hulk grunts, glaring at Steve. "Not kill."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "You were smashing him pretty hard when I woke up."

"Banner not like kill people," Hulk insists. "Hulk learn. Not kill people," and even to Tony, who has now heard Hulk say around thirty words total, it sounds like round ten or so of this argument. It's fascinating on any number of personal and professional levels, this new philosophy of restraint Hulk seems to have embraced. But exploring it now would be detrimental to the more important mission objective of getting the fuck out of the creepy underground lair of nonconsensual medical experimentation.

"I believe you, Big Guy," Tony says, clapping a hand on Hulk's shoulder in solidarity. "Banner's definitely not a fan of killing, and this guy is definitely not dead, so we're putting this one in the win column. That said, can I make a suggestion? Not a criticism, mind you. Just something to think about."

Hulk frowns. "Say."

"Human rib cages aren't really built to withstand the kind of pressure you're, uh... applying. He may be breathing now, but under present circumstances, it's likely--"

"Get off him or he'll croak," Clint translates, jogging in from the corridor. To Tony and Steve, he adds, "I left Nat on watch up top, but all the bad guys are lawn art now. We're clear for the moment."

Tony glares. "I was in the process of _explaining--_ "

Hulk shifts his weight to the side, off the bad guy. "Tin Man explain too much."

"See," Clint crows, beaming at Hulk. "That's exactly what I'm always saying!"

"Bird Man smart," Hulk says, clapping Clint on the shoulder just as Tony had done to him, just moments before. Only when Tony does it, it's a friendly gesture of trust and compassion, and when Hulk does it, it's a piano dropped out of a fifth-floor window.

Clint goes down, cartoon stars circling his head while he struggles to get both his eyes pointed in the same direction.

"For the record," Tony says, leveling a finger at Hulk, "you broke it, you bought it. If he can't walk, you're carrying him out of here. That's an official Avengers rule."

"Stupid rule," Hulk grunts. He watches Tony with an intelligence and humor not at all primitive dancing behind his half-lidded eyes.

"Most rules are at least a little bit stupid," he says. "You got me there." 

"Rest first. Carry later." Hulk blinks at Tony slowly. "Hulk tired."

"Uh huh." Tony trades a knowing glance with Steve; they've seen this show before. "You do that. But hey, before you rest --"

"No more explaining!"

"No, I get it, explanations are super boring. Agreed, buddy. I just want to say thanks. You did good. You saved Steve, and that's what Bruce wanted. He'll be glad you did that. And that you didn't kill anybody. He'll be really, really happy about the not-killing."

"Banner not happy," Hulk says with a disgusted roll of his eyes. "Banner _never_ happy."

Something like an electric shock zings across the surface of Tony's skin and leaves a sharp taste in the back of his throat. For a second, he's back in freefall, his lungs forgetting how to breathe, because that can't be true. It can't be. 

He puts himself in front of Hulk, close enough to feel the gamma-fueled heat of his metabolism, and looks directly into his eyes. This close, Hulk could kill him like swatting a fly, but Tony's not afraid of what Hulk might do to him, and never has been. Whatever Hulk is, wherever he comes from, he's not in there alone. No -- what Tony's suddenly, deeply afraid of is what Hulk might tell him.

"You don't mean... never, right?"

"Puny Banner always sad. Always angry. Not happy."

"Even now, at the Tower?" Tony demands, but what he means is, _even with me?_ He's pushed Bruce to stay at every opportunity, given up a chunk of his own sanity to keep him, and -- and that can't be for nothing, can it? He can't be making it _worse_ \-- can he? 

His heart thuds painfully behind the arc reactor. He knows himself, knows his history, his patterns. He can always, always make things worse.

"He's…he's still sad, living at the Tower?"

"Geez, Stark," Clint says, finally climbing unsteadily to his feet. "Remind me never to leave my diary lying around where you can find it."

"Hey," Tony says sharply, "Back off, I'm doing science here. Hulk... can you tell me how Banner's doing now? Since… since the big fight."

"Big fight good." Hulk's voice is a deep rumble, his eyes dark wells of brutal satisfaction.

"Oh, yeah." Tony pastes on a smile, repressing a full-body shudder. "That was awesome. Me, I count killer space whales at bedtime these days. Way more fun than sheep."

"Little fights good, too," Hulk assures Tony, gazing contentedly at the wreckage of supervillainy around them.

"So... Bruce?" Tony brings the full force of his attention to bear -- ignoring Steve's sharp glance -- and wonder of wonders, Hulk comes back around to the topic at hand.

He tilts his head. Thinking. A thing Bruce would have sworn Hulk absolutely could not do, but here it is.

"Always angry at Hulk," Hulk says slowly. "Always sad about Hulk. Hates Hulk, scared of Hulk. Fine. Hulk not sad. Hulk fight, smash. Protect Banner. Not kill. Maybe Banner not so scared. Maybe Banner not hate Hulk so much." 

"Ah, kid." Heart nearly breaking, Tony lays a hand on Hulk's shoulder again -- gently, to show him how that's done. "If it helps at all, _I_ like you, okay? I think you're kind of amazing. And as for Banner… I don't really think it's you that he hates."

Hulk looks at Tony, and a smile breaks across his wide, dirty face. "Banner like Tin Man. Like team. Hulk like, too. Team good for Banner. Good for Hulk. Team good. Banner stay." Hulk's shoulders rise, then fall eloquently. "Want stay. Hulk stay. Stay quiet. Try." 

Relief nearly takes the strength right out of Tony's legs. "Okay. Try... trying is good. Thank you. I'll take it. I can… I can work with that. Uh...what about you? Are you... okay, these days? Staying at the Tower, that works for you, too?"

"Hulk okay," Hulk grumbles, sounding anything but. "Tired of talk. Tin Man talk to Banner. Hulk rest now."

"Yeah," Tony says. He pats Hulk's shoulder and then, because he's a fucking superhero who has stared down alien armadas and lived to tell, he goes up on his toes and gently ruffles Hulk's hair. "You did great, Hulk. Now you can rest."

The change is a slow, grinding diminishment of mass that makes no scientific sense whatsoever. It offends both eye and reason. It's not magic; it's not easy, the way magic always seems to be. It's a physical process, a _physics_ process -- flesh and bone and sinew sinking deeper and deeper under pale skin until Hulk is bound tight inside a still, sleeping Bruce-shaped prison. 

Steve kneels, pulls Bruce's glasses from where they're hanging at the collar of his t-shirt, and slides them carefully into place on Bruce's face. 

"You know that wasn't fair." Steve looks over his shoulder at Tony, his face grave in the half-light. "You're supposed to be his friend. You can't just... just snoop behind someone's back like that."

"It was data I needed."

"Then you should have asked _Bruce_."

"You really don't get it, do you, Rogers." Tony shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Bruce. "I just did."

~

Bruce comes to when they try to move him, and nods blearily through the requisite reassurances: Steve is safe, everybody lived, and smashing was kept to a non-lethal minimum. He asks for his Plan B pants, which Clint produces from god-knows-where, and then he asks to go home.

Home. Because that's what he calls the Tower now, apparently. 

After that, Bruce crashes hard. He sleeps through SHIELD's belated arrival for mop-up, Steve's face freezing in a permanent Stark-inspired scowl, Clint rushing them all into the jet and Nat threatening to turn it back around when the mutual scowling turns into sniping. Tony can appreciate the impulse to protect Bruce Banner -- he actively supports it, in point of fact -- but Steve's tone is giving him a migraine aura, and the man's teeth are _blinding_.

Back at the Tower, Bruce rouses long enough to stumble across the hangar with one arm slung over Tony's shoulders. When they reach the elevator door, Tony says, "Been great catching up, Rogers. Next time you need your ass pulled out of the fire, just give us a buzz. Sorry, a _ring_. You should know, though, not all phones do that, these days."

Steve cocks his head at Tony. "I know that. Got a real nice one with your name on it."

"Welcome to the future." Tony waves his free hand vaguely at the world. "My name's on almost everything."

"It's kinda small, if you ask me. How does anybody hit all those little buttons?"

"Well, you've got paws like a grizzly. That's got to make it a bit more challenging. So... you need somebody to show you out, or...?"

"No, Tony," Steve says patiently. "I'm not going anywhere until we debrief. You got a conference room around here somewhere?"

Tony sighs, and readjusts Bruce against his side. "I've got a wet bar and some chairs in the penthouse. That's my best offer."

"Sold," Steve says cheerfully. "Lead the way."

Tony hates Steve all through the long elevator ride up to the penthouse, but starts to forgive him a little when he takes Bruce's other arm and helps steer him to the sofa. They arrange him more or less lengthwise, and Tony tucks his arms and legs in under the blanket Clint brought with them from the jet. Bruce is only kind of awake for this procedure, blinking at Tony through his glasses like a baby owl and making displeased noises when the sovereignty of his limbs is not properly respected. Nat stuffs a throw pillow under Bruce's head, and the four of them retire to their own chairs, scattered around the sunken living area.

"He's kind of cute like this," Nat says, sinking down into the leather. "I bet he's an adorable drunk."

"Does he get drunk? I mean, can he?" Steve sounds a little put out, and shrugs when Tony tilts his head at him. "I haven't been drunk since 1943."

"I haven't really tried it since the accident," Bruce says, not even bothering to open his eyes. "I'm not a big fan of losing control."

"Me either," Clint says. His own eyes are at half-mast, shadowed by his frown. "Since...well." He waves his hand at his head.

"I'm always in control," Nat says with a small, sweet smile.

"Copy that," Tony says, eyes wide. "Coffee all around."

It's Steve's show after that. Once he's got a mug in his hands, he fixes his eyes on it and says, "I was looking for some things that... went missing. After the war. Not at first, at first I just wanted to get to know the world like it is now. But I have to be honest -- a lot of what I saw, I didn't like. I started to think maybe if I could find some of the things I remembered, some of the things I lost...things might start to look a little better."

Steve glances up at Tony, like he's waiting for something. Something else he doesn't think he'll like. That twinges a little, but...fair enough. Tony isn't the best at reading people, and Steve isn't his favorite person to begin with. He can read fear pretty easily, though, often as he's seen it in the mirror. He keeps his mouth shut, and gives Steve what he hopes is an encouraging nod.

Steve's shoulders relax visibly, and his head dips down. He takes a long, slow breath and says, "I went to some museums, looked through some archives. Some of what I wanted, I found. Stuff I asked for, they usually let me have. I left most of it where it was. It's not-- it wasn't--"

"It wasn't there," Clint fills in for him. "Whatever it was you were looking for."

"I found a web site for a group that said they had a private archive of, uh... paraphernalia, I guess? Authentic. Things from the Howling Commandos, from the 107th. Even some stuff from your father," Steve adds, watching Tony carefully.

"So you reached out, they said sure, we'll hand it all over, just show up alone and unarmed?" Tony shakes his head. "And you went along with this plan…why?"

"There was a notebook. There were a lot of notebooks over the years, but there's one, in particular, that I really -- that I thought, hoped, might have survived. Buck and me -- we used to trade notes in it. Kept it on a table by the door back in Brooklyn, and later I used to stuff it under my pillow in the barracks. Just chatter, stupid stuff. Ribbing each other, leaving reminders, little cartoons. It wasn't always easy to make our schedules sync up, so we just kept in touch through it, I guess. It wasn't in the stuff SHIELD had for me when I woke up."

"So you went looking." Bruce sits up and shrugs off his blanket. His eyes are still bleary with exhaustion, but Tony can see him trying to rally in there, trying to step up. "And you thought these people had it?"

"They knew some things that made it seem likely."

"So when they 'grabbed' you..." Tony says, adding in air quotes. "You didn't put up much of a fight. Or any fight at all, actually."

"Steve." Bruce's voice is soft, reproachful. "You _let_ them take you?"

"It was all I had left of him." Steve's eyes come up to meet Bruce's. Something passes between them, some quiet, shared understanding Tony can't translate, that raises the hair at the back of his neck. "They had it or they didn't. Either way, I had to know. Getting snatched seemed the best way to find out. And... I guess I didn't much care what happened after that."

"Christ, Rogers." Tony drags his hands over his face. He, of all people, knows what things are worth and he wants to say nothing, no _thing_ , is worth that. But Steve's face is like an open wound, he's not even trying to hide his exhaustion or his loss, and Tony can't say it. He feels the weight of all the things he owns, all the things he _has_ , and he just -- he can't say it.

He tries to appeal to Bruce, because if any of them can be trusted to say something smart and kind and adult here, it's certainly not going to be Tony. But Bruce is already watching Tony, calm and patient, almost expectant. Tony widens his eyes at Bruce, and Bruce blinks and quirks his eyebrows back at Tony, and that's the ball back in his court again.

"Okay," Tony says slowly, feeling his way through. "Let's just press pause on this whole--" he waves a hand to encompasses both Steve and Bruce, because in this they are terrifyingly similar, "this whole thing, where you clearly have no concept of your own personal value to the world, or to the friends who -- who _do_ have a concept of your value. Which is a set that includes everyone in this room, by the way. Let's put that in our pockets for now, because I don't get it, and... and fuck, Rogers, I especially don't get how a stack of stapled papers is more important to you than your _life_."

Tony pushes a hand through his hair, blows out a breath, and plows on before Steve can bluster up a response. "That said. This thing is clearly very important to you. So... with your permission, I will bring all of my not inconsiderable resources to bear on helping you find it."

"Tony, I can't--" Steve stops, shakes his head. "This is a personal thing; I don't expect you to put yourself at risk just to indulge my nostalgia."

"Here's a funny thing about the future, Rogers. We gave up a while back on the notion that you can heal emotional trauma by running laps and eating more fiber. The kind of nostalgia you've got? It's corrosive. It doesn't get better on its own. You either kick its ass, or it kicks yours. I'm seeing a lot of the latter here where I'd prefer to see the former, so -- let me help you." Tony gathers the others in with a glance. "Let all of us help. You'd do it for us, right?"

Steve stares at Tony for a long, quiet moment; then, slowly, he nods. "I would. Thank you, Tony. All of you. This means a great deal to me. I… I don't really think I could do it on my own."

"Yes, we gathered that from your utter lack of effective strategy thus far."

"It was a gamble," Steve says, shrugging. "It didn't work out." 

"No need to get defensive, Capsicle; we don't hold it against you. You're emotionally compromised, after all." Tony kicks back in his chair, grinning as Steve's soft look hardens into an annoyed glare. "We can pick up your slack for a while."

"You know, Tony," Steve says slowly. "Now that we've covered my part of the story… didn't you collect some data you wanted to share with Bruce?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Rogers? After all I've just offered to do for you at some unspecified point in the future? This is your play?"

Steve nods, unrepentant. "The floor is yours, _Stark_."

Tony turns to Bruce. The conversation seems to have perked him up a little; his eyes are tracking, anyway, and he looks alert and interested. Still, Tony's vast preference would be to wait -- get a little rest, maybe. Give the adrenaline a chance to wear off. But Tony's nothing if not adaptable, and it's not like he sleeps these days anyway. "How are you feeling? Awake enough for some drama?"

Bruce's eyebrows rise. "More than we've had so far?"

"More personally relevant than we've had so far," Tony acknowledges. "But you can nap first if you need to."

"I don't think I can sleep through the sense of foreboding at this point, so… maybe another cup of coffee?"

"That I can do." Tony collects Bruce's mug and heads for the coffee machine. "While I'm playing barista -- Jarvis, would you mind tucking Hawkeye into his nest and Widow into her web for the night? I'm drawing a blank on an appropriately pithy metaphor for the Captain, but -- maybe wrap him in his flag?"

"Certainly, sir. Temporary quarters, or shall I show the Avengers to the permanent suites you've set aside for them?"

Four sets of eyes under four raised sets of eyebrows are suddenly pointed in Tony's direction. 

" _Permanent suites?_ " Clint's shocked voice crashes through the ensuing awkward silence. "For us?"

"Yes, Mr. Barton. Mr. Stark has set aside a residential floor in the Tower for each member of the Avengers, tailored to your individual tastes and designated for your permanent use. The highest level of security clearance was granted to each of you upon the Tower's rededication as _Avengers_ Tower."

"Surprise!" Tony drawls, adding in some festive jazz hands for effect. "You all live here now. Or, well, you all have the option of living here now, if you want it. It's not a kidnapping or anything. Try it out for the night, anyway. The space is yours; you can avail yourselves whenever you want it."

"That's very generous, Tony," Steve says steadily. "But it's not getting you out of this conversation."

"It's getting us out of it, though," Natasha says, smiling brightly. "And not a moment too soon." She pulls Clint to his feet and reaches out to ruffle Tony's hair on her way past. "Thanks, Shellhead. Jarvis, would you kindly lead us to our new homes away from home?"

"Certainly, Miss Romanoff, Mr. Barton. Please follow the lights to the north elevator when ready."

"Don't skip the exciting conclusion, Tony!" Clint calls as Natasha drags him off. "That's the best part!"

Bruce's gaze zeroes in on Tony, the last trace of haziness vanishing. "What exciting conclusion would that be, Tony?" 

"Thanks, Barton," Tony snaps, tossing a glare over his shoulder. He takes a breath, just to cool his own jets, then hands Bruce a mug of steaming black coffee. "I think we've got this, don't you, Bruce? Rogers, you're more than welcome to go check out your space while I spin the tale of my misdeeds."

Steve props his feet on the ottoman in front of his chair and folds his arms over his chest.

"Go check it out, Steve," Bruce says gently, his eyes steady on Tony's. "I've got this."

Steve rises immediately, letting Tony know exactly where he rates on the team roster, and lays a hand briefly on Bruce's shoulder. "You did good work today." His mouth tilts up at the corner. "Both of you."

"Thanks, Cap, that means a lot to me!" Tony calls to Steve's retreating back. 

"I'm pretty sure he meant both of me," Bruce says.

Tony laughs. "Oh, I know."

Rubbing at his eyes under his glasses, Bruce says, "What kind of work did _you_ do today?"

Tony blows out a long breath, trying to figure out how to get started. The thing is, maybe, technically speaking, he was slightly out of line. At the time it made sense; at the time, he hadn't really been thinking of Bruce as separate from Hulk at all. But he's pretty sure that's a distinction Bruce would prefer to keep intact.

"Okay. So." He parks himself on the coffee table in front of Bruce, close enough to catch the faint scent of ozone and sweat that still clings to his skin. "Here's the thing. I may have interviewed your greener half on the topic of your emotional well-being, without consulting you first. Captain Consent felt violated on your behalf."

Bruce's eyebrows draw together in a way that Tony can't readily interpret. Not quite a frown. Not quite _not_ one, either. It's his thinking-face, the kind he gets when he's deciding how mad he is, or maybe how mad it's safe to be. 

"Hey." He puts a hand on Bruce's shoulder; Bruce doesn't immediately shake him off, and that gives him enough hope to push on. "I'm sorry. I get that -- that asking Hulk about you was a violation of privacy. I mean, I get that _now_. I wasn't really thinking about it like that in the moment."

Bruce shifts minutely away to tug his blanket back up over his shoulders, and Tony backs off, lets his hand fall away. He notices, for the first time, that the spare shirt Bruce is wearing is his. It's the one Tony gave him that first night when they came back to the Tower; the night he invited Bruce to stay, and Bruce _stayed_.

"You should also know it was just me. Clint was mostly unconscious… uh, for reasons we don't need to go into right now, and Nat wasn't even there. Steve tried to make me stop, but you know how well that kind of thing usually works out, so--"

"What did he say?"

"Uh... he said... that I shouldn't do it, with the clear implication that I'm a terrible person and a bad friend."

"Tony." Bruce visibly summons patience from some unknown reserve. "What did the _other guy_ say?"

"Oh! That...that you're still pretty cranky, but doing better in general. With the clear implication that I'm an awesome person, and a _great_ friend." After a moment, honesty compels him to add, "And he likes the rest of the team, too, I guess."

"Huh." Bruce picks at a loose thread in his blanket, and gives Tony a small, hesitant smile. "That's all?"

"Well… at various points he also complained about my lack of punctuality and offered an unsolicited, absolutely scathing critique of my didactic style..."

"About _me_ , Tony."

"Ah. No, that was basically it. That you're mostly just upset about him. He seemed pretty unhappy about that. Said he likes fighting, no big headline there. He likes the team. And he said... he said you want to stay here." Tony swallows, and his eyes skate away from Bruce's. "Is he right about that?"

"This is just... it's so much to take in. I didn't know he could say much more than, you know. 'Raaar'." 

Bruce actually growls and waves his fist in the air, and Tony's startled into a grin. "Well, to be fair, he does say that a lot." 

"And now you tell me he's got intimate knowledge of my, my what -- my inner life? And he's got opinions on _my_ opinions? What do I even do with that?"

"Bruce, I honestly just wanted to be sure you're okay here. I didn't mean to go prying into your dark corners. It's just… I've been pushing you to stay all this time because I thought it would help you. I mean, selfishly, too, because having you around helps _me_. But the idea that staying isn't -- maybe isn't good for you… I flipped out a little."

Bruce cocks his head to the side, his eyes soft. "Tony..."

"I know." Tony rubs a hand over his face, looks away. "Not my finest hour."

"He -- the other guy. Hulk. He's not wrong. I feel... safe, here. I meant it when I told you I wasn't going anywhere. Not any time soon, anyway. If you were worried, you could have just asked me."

"Who was worried? Not me. I have absolute confidence in my ability to build and maintain lasting friendships with my peers in the scientific and superhero communities. And it's not like I've ever allowed my innate clinginess or self-esteem issues to drive anybody away, right? What would I possibly have to worry about?"

Bruce looks at Tony over the rims of his glasses. "Well. I'm glad we've been able to have this open and honest dialogue between friends."

"Yeah." Tony's shoulders fall, and he shoots Bruce a pained, apologetic smile. "I guess... I may need a little more practice in that area."

Bruce laughs. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe a lot more."

"Good thing you've got a live-in tutor, then." Bruce glances over at the elevator and smiles. "Maybe even more than one, now."

"Yeah, that's... that's good. Mostly good," Tony amends. "One part good, four parts annoying-slash-terrifying." He rubs at the back of his neck, trying to work out some of the tension. "You're really not upset?"

"I don't… love it? The things I don't tell people... there are reasons. Valid reasons. But it matters that you care about how I'm doing. It's been a while since anyone did."

"I do care. But I also know you don't owe me an all-access pass."

"That's good." A swift grin brightens Bruce's face. "That's lesson one. Don't do it again, or you just might get one."

"Not much of a threat, Doctor Banner. There's actual video to prove it now: The other guy adores me. What's lesson two?"

"I don't know... maybe, believe me when I say I'm going to stick around? I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Tony bites at his lower lip. He nods, slowly, and wonders if he can really do that. Trust somebody to _be there_ , even if things are hard, or weird, or -- knowing his life -- both. Trust Bruce to go against his nature, all in the name of a friendship not even a year old now. 

Some of that must show in his eyes because Bruce frowns and leans in, his eyes intent. "You do, don't you? Believe me?"

"I believe you," Tony says. "I want you to stay, and I believe you want to stay, at least. So that's something."

"So, what's the problem?"

What _is_ the problem? How can he even begin to define it? It's falling through a hole in the sky, it's Obie's hand in his chest, it's waking up attached to a car battery in Afghanistan. But underneath all those things is him, his brain's stubborn insistence on reflecting his outer scars back inward. It's a wetware problem, a… a _Tony Stark_ problem. 

Only now it's even worse than that, because earlier today he let it be an Iron Man problem. And he can't let that happen again. Not ever, not for any reason. 

Not even for Bruce Banner. No matter what Tony may have promised.

"I'm the problem. I made a deal with you, and I can't keep up my end of it. I brought you here, I promised I'd be here for you, and I just can't. I can't anymore." He meets Bruce's eyes, and the patience, the trust he sees there makes him die a little inside. "I have to get out of this city, Bruce, or I'm gonna lose my fucking mind."

~ 

The temptation is vast -- to stand up, do something, move. Probably to the bar, which contains the booze, which sometimes is enough to close the hole in the sky. At least temporarily. But Bruce has a history with deeply troubled losers who drink their pain away, and Tony doesn't want to become part of it. He wants Bruce's respect and he wants Bruce to... to _want_ to be around him. 

He wants Bruce to be here, when he gets back.

So he stays put. He doesn't move. He doesn't do anything. Just waits to hear what Bruce has to say.

Bruce takes his glasses off, focusing intently on folding the arms carefully closed. Tony can't help but see how right Bruce looks here, in his space, among his things. The soft glow of the lamps catches in the silver of his hair. It's a riot Tony’s fingers itch to untangle, and an urge he's not yet ready to deconstruct.

"I think," Bruce says slowly, "I may need access to at least a little bit of the Tony Stark Experience for this conversation."

Tony nods, pressing his lips together, and stands up. He doesn't go to the bar. He paces, between the sofa and the windows, in and out of the lamplight in the center of the room. Bruce turns to watch his progress, his face calm, eyes curious.

"So," Tony says, his voice coming out higher than he likes. "You want _Recurring Nightmares of the Rich and Heroic_ for a thousand? In my greatest hits track, I drown face-down in a barrel in the desert for not making weapons for terrorists. Or, there's the one where I _don't_ drown because I _do_ make the weapons, and thousands of innocent people die instead of me, because I'm a selfish, soulless coward."

Bruce makes an inarticulate sound of negation, but Tony can't stop. "Then there's the one that's less of a nightmare than an amateur documentary, kind of a visual tour of all the different ways weapons I personally designed and built have turned live people into dead bodies all across the planet. That one is super graphic by the way, TV-MA all the way, recommended for no audiences, anywhere. Ever. I won't go into detail."

"Jesus, Tony."

"But my current favorite is new. This one is so good, it's pretty much on endless repeat. I don't even really need to be asleep for it anymore. It's the one where I'm falling essentially forever, while my oxygen runs out and the unimaginable cold of infinite space crystallizes my skin and shatters my bones, and an alien armada bent on whole-scale planetary destruction invades Earth through a portal I can never quite reach, no matter how far or how long I fall. Today, when you were underground -- I almost fell for real. If not for the Spy Kids and Jarvis, I'd be a shiny red splat on the ground right now."

"You…" Bruce swallows, clears his throat and starts again. "You fell?"

"I'm trying to think of it as a temporary moment of non-buoyancy. There were laser cannons, I got hit, I… I experienced an unexpected episode of zero-g that rendered me briefly unable to effect repairs or accept outside input. It was fine, of course, I'm… fine. Jarvis had my back."

Tony gets through it without his throat seizing up or his heart actually knocking the arc reactor out of its casing. Not quite without his breath catching once or twice. All things considered, it's as concise and dispassionate an accounting of his trauma as anyone could possibly expect.

Still, when he's done, he glances at Bruce just to check -- just to _know_. Just in case he might surprise an involuntary expression of disgust or disapproval that Bruce would no doubt feel bad about and quickly smooth out of sight, because he's a decent person. He wouldn't want to embarrass Tony any more than Tony has already embarrassed _himself_ by spilling his innermost secrets to a guy he's only known for a minute, a guy who probably thinks of him as a friendly colleague, maybe someone vaguely buddy-adjacent at best--

But what he surprises there instead is something so different it stops Tony's backpedaling in an instant. So unexpected, it takes him a long, shocked moment to recognize it.

He looks like Tony _feels_ when the sky opens up and the suffocating dark bleeds out of it. He looks terrified.

"What," Tony says, his eyebrows drawing together. "Why -- why are you looking at me like that?"

Bruce shakes his head. His face has gone white around the eyes. He stands up suddenly, takes a step toward Tony, then stops. His mouth moves, but before he actually says anything his jaw locks and he looks around the room, his eyes almost frantic. "I need--"

"What?" Tony says again, brow furrowed in concern. He moves closer, reaching out, because this seems bad -- this seems even worse than he expected, and his expectations are never very good. "Bruce? What do you need?"

"I need to think about this," Bruce says in a rush, and steps back, toward the elevator. 

Tony goes absolutely, perfectly still. Hands, heart, head -- everything, every part of him, frozen in place. Bruce's eyes meet his and skate away immediately, almost a flinch. Tony feels it in his chest, like a blow. Right now, in this moment, he's more afraid of Bruce than he's ever been of the Hulk. 

He doesn't understand what's happened, what's happening, but then he doesn't have to, does he? Bruce can't even look at him. In his _worst_ worst-case scenario, Tony never saw this coming. 

Carefully, quietly, he says, "Okay."

"I'm sorry, Tony. I just. I need to… remove myself from this situation."

Tony nods, and turns away. He slides his hands into his pockets before they can clench into fists. "Yeah, I…pieced that together."

"Tony."

Tony turns back to Bruce and nods. "No worries. It's late. It's been a long day. You should get some sleep." 

At the elevator, Bruce looks over his shoulder and says, "In the morning, we'll talk… okay? When I'm steadier."

Tony nods again. A cold ache builds inside him, and he clenches his teeth under a tight smile. "Sure will."

~

The elevator door closes, and Bruce sags against the wall, his heart racing way too fast. He can feel a question rising inside him, a vague and torpid curiosity in the lowest, darkest part of his mind. It's alien, unknowable, it's _not-him_ , but it's also not entirely unthinking. He gets that now. Because of today, yes; because Tony told him. But mostly because in the past eight years he's never been more afraid -- and he's never been more hopelessly _himself_. The change he senses, the gut-wrenching shift deep beneath his foundations, it isn't Hulk. 

This transformation is much, much worse.

The elevator pings softly and he stumbles out, down the corridor, into his own room -- no, _Pepper's_ room. Pepper, who's made him so welcome here, been so kind to him. First for Tony's sake, sure, but now Bruce is pretty sure she just likes him, for his own sake. Cares about him. She's freely ceded Tony's time and attention to him again and again without jealousy or complaint and Bruce has-- 

Bruce has overreached. He has utterly, fundamentally overreached himself and now his balance has deserted him. 

The vertigo is unbearable. 

He leans against the door, not fully trusting his legs to keep him from falling. He thought he could handle the small stuff, the minor indulgences of companionship and security, but it turns out that kind of thing snowballs. Enough of the small stuff becomes the big stuff after a while, and the big stuff is not his to take. No matter how much he wants it. 

He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to scrub away the memory of Tony's face as the elevator slid shut. It was so horribly, horribly wrong; it wasn't even Tony, just a broken plaster cast of him, nothing real showing through the cracks. Leaving with Tony looking like that may be the worst thing Bruce has ever done, and he's the fucking _Hulk_.

But what else could he have done? With Tony standing there shaking with shame, confessing his damage like a list of his sins instead of the indelible proof of his strength that it unquestionably is. 

Standing there, after everything Tony has suffered and survived, still armored in that indomitable resilience that makes Bruce want to -- makes him want --

Makes him _want._

He shoves away from the door, kicking off his shoes. He pulls his shirt off in the bedroom, lets it fall to the floor. In the bathroom he turns on the shower and strips off his pants -- Plan B pants, he remembers dizzily, and chokes on a panicked laugh. He is way out past Plan B now. 

He steps into the spray while it's still ice cold. It cools his body, but it's not enough, it doesn't help. It isn't the heat in his body that's the problem. It's everything else. 

A blank, uncountable time later, Bruce shuts off the water, dries himself haphazardly with brutally inefficient swipes of a ridiculously soft towel, and digs in the dresser for something to sleep in. Something to pretend to sleep in, anyway. He turns down the lights, lays himself out on top of the blankets and stares at the ceiling, struggling to clear his mind. He knows how to do it, has spent years learning to still his thoughts and slow his heart. But the finely-honed techniques that help him hold off the other guy are no match for Tony Stark. 

Instead, he remembers: 

Tony on the helicarrier, cheerfully vicious and maddeningly brilliant. The light in his chest reflected in the dark of his eyes, pushing Bruce to think faster, to reach deeper. To be more than just a coin waiting to be flipped, a scientist or a monster. Tony offering him a home, a chance to work, a chance to live a life. Tony giving him space to put himself back together, giving his friendship when the space got to be too much. Tony putting _himself_ back together one gleaming shattered piece at a time in some secret inner forge -- treating his most brilliant work like a bitter failure he has to hide. 

Tony watching Bruce back away from him. Tony, with a brittle smile stretched over his pain like Bruce is a stranger.

Bruce sits up, elbows jabbing into his knees, hands clutching at his hair. Like a badly cut film he can't shut off, he sees it all again: every shared smile, every laugh, every touch. Bruce should have known; he should have seen this coming. It started the same way with Betty, with her irrational trust and unshakeable kindness slowly sinking their roots into him until ripping them out couldn't help but rip him apart. And it will end the same way, with Bruce wanting way more than he should take, and needing way more than he can have.

He has to stop it, and he can't do that here. He looks around the darkened room, the familiar shadows that never really belonged to him, the things that were never really his. He can't even start to do that here. 

Everything here belongs to someone else, and that's how it should be. He was just… borrowing a life, just for a little while.

The only way to make this right is to give it back.

~

Tony didn't think he would sleep, but he wakes up sweating, under a blanket, face mashed into the pillow last seen under Bruce's head. There's an ottoman under his feet, which are now without shoes, and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him. He grabs it like a lifeline, swishes some of the taste of yesterday out of his mouth. His head feels thick and slow, every thought wrapped in cotton. The jagged edges of the night before have dulled down to a lingering ache in his chest; this must be what it's like to feel better in the morning. 

He doesn't really care for it.

Jarvis reports Clint and Natasha are still in their respective suites. Steve's suite is empty, but he's still kicking around somewhere downstairs. Since he's kind of in hiding from an organized, high-tech band of Cap-nappers, it's probably just as well. Bruce is still in his room, where he's quietly doing whatever one does to recover from a major Hulk-hangover and a sudden revulsion for Tony. Probably packing his bags.

He finds Pepper perched on a stool in the kitchen, another coffee cup on the counter beside her. The shattered city skyline spreads out behind her like a canvas, morning light catching her hair and making it glow. She's so beautiful, such a blazing presence in the room and in his life, it almost knocks him over. He goes to her, presses his face into the crook of her shoulder, and reminds himself that he isn't alone. He has Pepper, he has Rhodey wherever he is; he has Jarvis and Happy and his bots. All good things he doesn't deserve, but they're his, and it should be enough. 

It isn't. And it doesn't really help. Tony was terrified Bruce might leave, but never for a second believed he would. Not if Tony was open and honest, like Bruce wanted. Certainly not like this. He muffles a groan of frustration in Pepper's shoulder.

She leans her cheek against the top of his head. "Sore from all the superheroing?"

"Plus stiff from all the chair-sleeping," he says. It's part of the truth, at least. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

She pulls back far enough to meet his eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Tony levels a finger at her. "I see what you did there, Miss Potts."

"You're a very intelligent man, according to all reports." She turns toward him and pushes part of his bedhead out of his eyes. "And you know I don't mind when you come to bed at crazy hours, so…"

"The thing is, when I come in, you make this little rage...noise? like a half-growl...half-snarl, kind of thing? It's fairly terrifying." He lays a hand over the arc reactor and gives her a wide-eyed look. "Honestly? I stay away purely for my own safety."

Pepper rolls her eyes and grins. "Tony."

"Honey, last night I honestly could not have made it out of that chair if my life depended on it. I guess I could've had Steve carry me in bridal-style, but I feel like he and I don't have that kind of relationship, and I'd hate to blur the lines."

"How did you sleep?"

"I have absolutely no memory of it, so that's a positive. On the other hand, my spine has developed angles that violate all known laws of geometry, so... I think I'd have to call last night a draw."

"Is that better or worse than most of your nights, lately?"

Tony runs his hands along her arms, up to her shoulders, where he stops and holds on, pressing his forehead to hers. Bruce was right about one thing; he hasn't been aces at the whole sharing thing lately. He knows, has known for a while, that he's not really doing right by Pepper, but his brain has been in fight-or-flight mode since the attack on New York -- since Afghanistan, if he's being honest for a change -- and he's not sure how much _right_ he's got left in him. 

Probably not enough. Last night Bruce looked at him like a nightmare come to life, so… yeah. Definitely not enough.

Whatever's going on in his head? It's not going away. Internal pressure is building, and the existing release valve is definitely not built to code -- point of fact, there's some seriously shoddy workmanship down there in the under-plumbing of his brain. He's not looking forward to the frankly epic renovations that will probably be necessary just to find all the pipes, let alone keep the whole structure from exploding.

He should go. He's not going to get any better here. There was a hole in the sky above the Tower, and now there's a hole in _him_ , and his main reason to stay has just _removed himself_ from Tony's situation. Probably for good.

"Most of my nights, lately, kind of suck," Tony says slowly. Every word feels like the first step off a tall cliff, but he keeps his tone light. For her. "The chair was just another bad idea in a long line of them."

Pepper watches him, waiting for whatever comes next, the patience of saints in her eyes. When he can't quite find his next line, she loops her arms around his waist and drops a kiss onto his brow. "Chairs aren't known for giving you a great night's sleep, no matter how much you pay for them."

"True," Tony muses. He pulls back far enough to give her a speculative look. "How would you feel about a custom leather mattress?"

The look Pepper gives him requires very little interpretation. It's a kind of comfort, knowing he can read her that well. "Leather sheets?" he hazards, checking her eyes for any sign of weakness. It's still a no -- but this time there's also a question. She reads him pretty well, too.

"Okay, fair enough. Striking leather sleepwear from the survey preemptively, based on recently collected data." Tony lets Pepper go, and turns to look out over his bright, broken city. "Failing that... how would you feel about a little change of scenery?"

~

Pepper needs a day to make arrangements; Tony spends that time cleaning tools in the hangar and showing his newest tenants how to work the appliances. It's nothing Jarvis couldn't do, but it keeps Tony both busy and accessible. Not that he's expecting Bruce to look for him; not after the morning passes without even an attempt at the promised talk, anyway. 

And then the afternoon, and then the evening. Tony spends the night in the guts of the jet, getting grease all over the tools he just cleaned and listening for the soft hiss of an opening door. The bots are already on their way to Malibu, and Jarvis has picked up on Tony's mood; except for the occasional clang of metal on metal, the hangar is quiet. 

It's better than dreaming, but not by much. After a while, he gives up and turns on some music. He's still hitting the coffee machine instead of the bar, so at least there's that.

In the morning, Happy is already parked on the street when Tony realizes he can't do it. He can't just walk away without a word, without at least trying to find a way… not to fix things, he thinks they're past that, but… maybe to leave things better. He squeezes Pepper's hand, kisses her cheek, and tells her to go on ahead. 

Because Pepper is an eldritch being possessed of knowledge beyond mortal divining, she kisses him back and says, "Good luck."

According to Jarvis, Bruce hasn't come out of his rooms since he went in, night before last. Tony's not sure what that means, but it's probably not a great sign. 

He takes the elevator down, knocks lightly to announce himself, then leans against the wall outside Bruce's door and waits, jangling nerves a white wall of static in his head. He's wearing yesterday's jeans and a t-shirt still streaked with engine grease and for the past 24 hours he's been substituting caffeine for food.

The door opens on Bruce Banner dressed for adventure. Nondescript suit that's never fit him, ancient duffel strapped over one shoulder. Suitcase open and half-packed on the bed. He looks more travel-ready than Tony does, and Tony's got a private plane idling on a runway at the airport.

He looks shocked to see Tony standing there, and faintly wary. His knuckles are white around the strap of his bag. "I thought you'd left," he says, as if that's a decent excuse for trying to skip town without a backwards glance.

"I thought you'd decided not to." Tony shoves off the wall and pushes past Bruce into the room. He stares down at Bruce's suitcase, arms crossed over his chest. "Guess we're both behind on current events."

Bruce turns to track his progress, frowning. "What?" 

"I also thought you wanted to talk, but I guess you're not quite done 'removing yourself'." Tony brings his chin up, tightens his grip on his arms. "Sorry to interrupt your packing." 

Bruce's eyes widen, showing white around the edges, and he lets go of his duffel bag like it's scalded him. It hits the floor with a dull thud as Bruce steps closer. "I should have come to you. You're right. I'm sorry. But this isn't --" He shakes his head and grates out a laugh. "This isn't what it looks like."

"Really?" Tony says. "Really, Bruce, it isn't what it looks like? Because it _looks like_ I had a few nightmares, and you decided to move on to greener pastures."

"No!" The word comes out loud, and Bruce shakes his head, glaring at Tony for a second before he forces his gaze away. His hands clench together just below chest level, then fall uselessly to his sides. When he looks back, his eyes have softened a little. "Sorry. But right up front, no. I'm not leaving." 

Tony flings his arms wide to encompass the room. "This isn't leaving? Are you packing to go down to breakfast, then? The group kitchen is really well stocked, but there's not so much food you'll need a change of clothes."

"You have every right to be angry. I handled our last conversation very badly. I screwed up, and I gave you a really wrong impression of where my head's at, and I'm sorry." Bruce takes another step forward, bringing himself completely into Tony's personal space bubble. Which at this point is only slightly smaller than the room they're in, so it's not even all that close. Bruce watches Tony until Tony can't help but meet his eyes, and there's nothing but sincerity there, nothing but honest concern. "Tony, I mean it. I'm so sorry I left like that."

Tony's knees unlock, and he drops to the edge of Bruce's bed with a suddenness gravity alone cannot account for. He props his elbows on his knees, and his head on his clasped hands, elegant and poised because yeah, he _meant_ to do that. Some of the ice that's been crisping up his edges starts to thaw. Just a little. "You're gonna have to help me out here, then, Bruce, because I have less than no idea what's going on right now."

"You caught me off guard," Bruce says, and then keeps pushing through the opening Tony's left him. "That's not your fault, I just wasn't expecting… that. I wasn't expecting that you would leave the Tower, I mean. But I understand why you have to, and I know it's the right thing for you to do. 

"I thought…while you're gone. I thought I could move into the suite you put in next to my lab. It's closer to the rest of the team, and I already crash there sometimes when I work too late, and…" Bruce shrugs, his eyes flicking around the room restlessly. "And nobody else has ever used it. I thought… if I'm going to stay here, I want a place that's really mine."

"If you're going to stay here," Tony repeats slowly, turning it into an open-ended question.

Bruce smiles. It's just a pale ghost of its real potential, but it's something. "Since. Since I'm going to stay here. I promise, I will absolutely be here when you get back."

"Yeah?" Tony hates the edge of a whine in his voice; he's pathetic, but he can't help it. "Even if--"

"Whenever that may be. There's no deadline. You're… you're the best friend I have, Tony. I'll put up with a lot to help you find your balance again." Bruce's smile levels up into a crooked grin. "Even sharing a kitchen with Barton."

Tony stares at him blankly -- part wonder, part whiplash. "I can build you your own kitchen in the lab suite," he says, distracted.

"I was just kidding. The lab suite already has a kitchen; it's called _the lab_."

"I don’t know that a Bunsen burner plus a minifridge really counts."

"Believe me when I tell you I've made do with worse."

"I don't get it. I don't get _you_ , Banner. If you weren't freaking out, and you weren't pissed about me leaving, what exactly was the problem?"

"Not you," Bruce says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that he means it. He joins Tony on the edge of the bed; he leaves a space the size of a canyon between them, and he doesn't quite meet Tony's eyes, but he's still there, and apparently he's staying. "I'm not as adaptable as my recent history might lead you to believe. As a matter of survival, sure, but… I like routine, I like knowing what to expect from one day to the next. I got used to things being… the way they’ve been, since I got here. Got too comfortable, I guess. I needed some time to recalibrate."

"You didn't look like a guy experiencing a minor calibration error," Tony says bluntly. "You looked like you were maybe ten seconds away from vomiting in the elevator. I'm supposed to believe that didn't have anything to do with me?"

"It didn’t," Bruce insists. "Not like you think, anyway. I mean I get it. You think having nightmares or anxiety attacks or whatever you're having -- you think it makes you weak. That's obvious. But what I see is... you keep doing these terrifying, selfless things. Whatever the hardest thing is... you just do it."

Bruce shakes his head again, and on his face is a look Tony's not sure anyone has ever directed at him before. "Tony, knowing what's going on with you? I have more respect for you now than ever. I honestly think you may be the bravest person I've ever met. I'm not sure you know how to do anything _but_ face your fears." Bruce's cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are steady on Tony's. "I don't think you have any idea how amazing that is."

Tony's throat works but he can't actually form any words. He just looks at Bruce, who possibly is -- who definitely is more than just a buddy, and hopes what he's not saying gets through. He reaches out a hand across the space between them -- and after a second's hesitation, Bruce reaches back and takes it. His hand tightens around Tony's, convulsively.

"You remember what you told me that first day? About that?" Bruce asks. He raises the hand still holding Tony's and taps a finger against the arc reactor glowing a comforting, steady blue through Tony's t-shirt. "You called it a 'terrible privilege.'"

"So these dreams, these... episodes," Tony says, his mind skipping ahead. "You're saying they're the terrible part?"

"Maybe. Maybe they're just... part of the price you pay, for the power to do what you do."

"It's a pretty high price."

"You're pretty high-powered." Bruce lets go of Tony's hand and retreats back into his own space. "But you learned to control the reactor, so..."

"So I can learn to control the rest?" Tony shakes his head. It sounds like the kind of lie he tells himself just before sleep carts him off to his own personal hellscape. "I don't know if I believe that."

"Tony, I've never once seen you back away from anything. You'll figure this out."

Tony bites his lip and gives Bruce a speculative look. "You know… you could come with me. Malibu is a lot nicer than New York, this time of year. Pepper adores you, she'd be totally on board. And there's plenty of room…"

But Bruce is already on his feet, backing away and shaking his head. "No, that… that's kind, I appreciate it, but that's not gonna work. I'd just be a distraction."

"Sure, but like a _good_ distraction. The best kind. My favorite kind. And hey, you're already packed," Tony says, eyes landing on the suitcase. "At least take a minute to think about it. Take… five minutes. I'd give you more, but Happy's double parked downstairs."

"Somebody has to stick around and break in the new kids. And you'll have Pepper. You should… you should tell her some of this." Bruce looks away, his face shadowed. "She loves you; that's not going anywhere. You should tell her all of it."

Tony nods; he's not going to push, not when he's still half expecting Bruce to vanish with a cartoon *BAMF* any second. It's not that he doesn't trust Bruce, it's just… it's a recalibration. 

"We'll stay in touch, though," he says, flicking his eyes up to check Bruce's reaction. 

Bruce smiles. It's weird, a little fragile maybe; not quite what Tony was aiming for. But Bruce nods and says, "Yeah, we will," and he seems like he means it.

"Don't forget we've got projects on the board."

"I would never disrespect the project board like that," Bruce says solemnly. 

"Okay." Tony nods, and stands up. "I guess I should let you finish packing for your big move."

"Uh, I am finished packing." Bruce gives Tony an odd look, and flips the suitcase closed and zips it up. "See?"

Tony's eyes bulge. "It's not even halfway full. You've been living here how long…? And all you have is a duffel bag and barely half a suitcase?"

"I'm just going downstairs!" Bruce says, hunching his shoulders. "You're crossing the country, and I bet you don't even have your wallet on you."

"That's because my wallet left yesterday on another plane, along with three bots, half a ton of fabrication equipment, and enough clothes to stock an especially snazzy haberdashery for a month."

Bruce's brow furrows. "Why didn't you go with them?"

"Oh, my god." Tony steps in and bops Bruce in the forehead with the heel of his hand. He telegraphs it, he's not crazy; but seriously. "I was giving you space, you nutjob. I wanted us right, before I left!"

"Wow." Bruce's face lights up with a real, honest smile, and that's it -- that's the one Tony's been waiting for. Something tight and uncomfortable relaxes in Tony's chest, letting him breathe easily for the first time in days. "Tony, that's… I don't know what to say. That means a lot."

"I'm a very sensitive individual, in case you hadn't noticed." He gives up; he pulls Bruce into a hug. It's the last chance he's going to get for a while, and he takes full advantage, wrapping his arms around Bruce's back and tucking his face into the cheap fabric stretched across his shoulders. 

Bruce nods against the side of Tony's neck and mumbles, "Only now I'm thinking about the carbon footprint? An extra cross-country flight, that's double the fuel and emissions, Tony."

Tony laughs, his grip getting tighter as everything else in him loosens up. "That," he says, "is just how much I care about our friendship."

**Author's Note:**

> If you've stuck with me in this series through the long drought, special thanks for your patience! I hope it was worth the wait. :) This past year was challenging for a lot of reasons (and these past few months especially so -- for everyone, everywhere.) But I'm so glad I was able to finish this and get it out into the world. There's a lot more to come in this series, and the next in the pipeline will speed up the 'slow burn' considerably!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [reblogging on tumblr](https://mollyamory-again.tumblr.com/post/618580020376535040/part-3-of-the-soft-sciences-series-with-many). Or just [come visit](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mollyamory-again) \- my asks are always open, and I'm always looking for more people to talk to about my favorite mad scientists. <3


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